“I don’t know.” She slows down when we’re next to it and I peer inside the empty cab, although the windows are tinted and I can’t see a thing. It could be the same pickup I saw the night of my accident or the one that almost ran me over on my bike or the one I thought I saw outside Starbucks when Levi suddenly bolted.
Or it could be that I am a victim of a wildly overactive imagination and a crazy-protective mother who’s made me paranoid.
The house has one light on in the front room, but overall, it’s quiet and unremarkable. When we drive past, I turn to get the license plate of the truck—which would be the smartest way to identify it. I memorize the number on the standard-issue blue and yellow Pennsylvania tag.
At the top of the hill, Molly stops at the intersection and points to a house on the corner. “I don’t know about that other house, but your pal hottie number two lives there.”
“Chloe Batista?”
“That’s her Fiesta in the driveway, with the Salt Life bumper sticker.” She gives me a wry smile. “Who does that?”
“You know, all that surfing in Vienna.” I recognize the bright-blue car Chloe paraded when she got it for her sixteenth birthday. “Anyway, she’s not my pal.”
“Well, she wants you in her Sisters of the List club.” There might be a hair of jealousy in Molly’s voice, but I totally get that.
“Don’t worry, Molly. I’m not going to the dark side.”
She laughs, but her heart’s not in it. “I’m all about the dark side, if they let me in. It beats hanging out with the band losers on Saturday nights.”
“I still think it’s bogus that these kids didn’t even know my name, or yours, until that list came out.”
“The boys knew your name, Kenzie, or you wouldn’t have gotten enough votes to make the list.”
I just roll my eyes. “I’m starting to hate that freaking list.”
“You just need to relax and use it to your advantage, Kenz.”
When we reach my house, we make plans to go to school together in the morning, and then I head in to find my mom in the den watching Dr. Oz reruns. After some small talk about the weekend—not a word about the party, the kissing, or, oh my God, my first sip of vodka—she starts talking about Olivia. Of course, it’s been all over the news.
I tell her I barely knew Olivia and only dumb, drunk kids dive into quarries, and before she can get too deep into a topic I’m already tired of, I escape to my room, close the door, and curl up on my bed.
The next thing I do is pull that napkin out to study Levi’s handwriting.
Nihil Relinquere et Nihil Vestigi
Why was my translation so important? Was it just a ploy to have a pseudo-date with me? I’d kind of think that from the way he acted, but then … bam. He was gone with the wind.
Or was he gone with the truck? I never really saw him get on his motorcycle, which is the only thing I’ve ever known him to drive. Did he get in that truck?
I open up my laptop to Google the phrase. All that comes up are links to books and articles, and Latin class notes from all different colleges. I get lost for a long time reading, testing my brain, finding a few new words.
This is what I should be doing, I think, aching a little. This is what I do. I should be preparing for State and winning the top prize. Instead I’m flirting with bad boys and kissing rich ones.
I consider going downstairs to relaunch the State discussion, which has been dropped completely after the accident last week. Outside I hear a siren, then another, loud and fairly close. But I’ve found Cicero’s Letters to Atticus, and I’d rather read that than pay attention to anything. This is my comfort place.
The Latin is beautiful, musical, perfection in every word. I want to hear Cicero himself speak these words. I want to—
My door flies open and Mom is standing there, open-jawed and paper white.
“What’s wrong?”
“Another … one.”
“Another what?”
“Another … girl.”
I just blink at her, a slow, cold agony already clawing at my heart.
“Another girl what?” Except I know. I know from her face and her voice and, oh, God, the sirens. I just know.
“Dead.”
I slowly put my hand to my mouth, a cold sweat stinging my neck. The