posted by: iambanksky at 8:55 p.m.

How many more children will have to disappear before Congress takes note? Poor Maddie. And poor Sarah! I can’t imagine how devastated she must be.

posted by: mamabear27 at 12:00 a.m.

Sarah Snow is a liar.

posted by: anonymous at 1:03 a.m.

JULY 22

Dara

I make it back to the parking lot without seeing the reporter again, thank God. Still no texts from Parker, and no word from Nick, either. Just a creepy text from a number I don’t recognize.

Yo. WTF. Tried calling. R u dead?

I delete the text without replying. Probably some asshole I made out with once.

My whole body feels filmy with sweat, and my legs are killing me. I half jog, half wobble across the street to the gas station. I buy a Coke and chug it in basically a single gulp, then lock myself in the bathroom, which is surprisingly clean and as cold as a meat freezer. I splash water on my face, dampening my hair and shirt in the process and not even caring. I towel off with the scratchy brown paper towel unique to public restrooms, the kind that smells like wet earth.

I try not to look too long in the mirror—funny how I used to like to look at myself, could stand for hours with Ariana at my mom’s vanity before we went out, comparing lip and eye shades and making funny faces—and sweep my hair over my right shoulder, which helps conceal the scars below my jawline. There’s nothing I can do about the scars on my cheek and temple, although I half wish I had Nick’s hoodie again.

Already I feel better. Still, I spend some time rifling through the rack of weird miscellaneous crap all gas stations sell: Christian rock CDs, sun visors, plastic razors. When Parker first got his license, six months before Nick, we used to play this game where we’d all pile into the car and hit up the local pawn shops and gas stations, competing over who could find the weirdest items for sale. One time at a Gas ’n Go he found two old beanbag toys, fur clotted with dust, stuffed behind a row of condoms and energy-pill bottles. Nick got the horse because she used to ride, and I got the bear, which I named Brownie.

I wonder whether he remembers that day.

I wonder what he would think if he knew that Brownie still sleeps with me every night.

The parking lot across the street is now mostly empty, and both the cops and the news vans have dispersed. The sun is hovering low over the trees, and I can see stretches of the bay lying puddle-like between the clutter of businesses and condos.

When I step outside, I’m surprised to see Sarah Snow standing a few feet away, angled behind a big SUV, smoking a cigarette with hard, rapid pulls. She starts when she sees me, dropping her cigarette. Then, after a momentary hesitation, she comes toward me.

“Hey.” She brings her hand to her mouth quickly, then drops it, as though still smoking a phantom cigarette. Her fingers are trembling. “Don’t I know you?”

Whatever I thought she might say, it wasn’t that. I shake my head. “I don’t think so,” I say.

She keeps watching me. Her eyes are huge, as if she’s not seeing but actually devouring me through her eyeballs. “You look familiar.”

Even though it’s a long shot, I say, “Maybe you know my sister?”

“Yeah.” She starts nodding. “Yeah, maybe.” She looks away, squinting, wiping her hands on the back of her jeans. The seconds tick on. I wonder what it would be like to have to be here, on the beach, surrounded by strangers, holding hands with some sweating neighbor and calling for your sister to come home.

“Listen,” I say, fighting a sudden feeling of suffocation. I was never good at this: words of comfort or hope. “I’m really sorry. About your sister. I’m sure . . . I’m sure she’s okay.”

“You think?” When she turns back to me, her face is so raw, so full of grief and fear and something else—anger—I almost turn away. But then she steps forward and grabs my wrist, squeezing so hard I can feel the impression of each individual finger.

“I was trying so hard to protect her,” she says, speaking in a sudden rush. “It’s all my fault.” She’s so close I can smell her breath, sour, stinking of tobacco. “The lying is the hardest part, isn’t it?”

“Sarah.” Across the street, Kennedy is standing at the edge of the parking lot, holding a hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun. She’s frowning.

Once again, Sarah’s face transforms. Before I can respond, she releases me, spinning around, her blond hair fanning behind her shoulder blades, trailing the faint smell of smoke.

FEBRUARY 9

Nick’s Gratitude List

Why is it so hard to find five things to be thankful for? It’s only been a month and already keeping a gratitude journal might be the hardest New Year’s resolution I ever made, especially after our crap show of a Christmas. I can think of a billion things I’m not happy about. Like the fact that Dara’s not speaking to me ever since she caught me reading her journal. Or the fact that Mom spends all her time at work. Or the fact that Dad’s new girlfriend always has lipstick on her teeth, even first thing in the morning.

Okay, bad start. Here goes. For real this time:

1. I’m grateful that I don’t have lipstick on my teeth, ever, because I never wear any.

2. I’m grateful for the Toyota Dad got me! Okay, it’s like twenty years old and Parker says the upholstery smells like cat food, but it drives, and this way Dara and I don’t always have to fight over the keys.

3. I’m grateful for Perkins, my little walking ball of fluffy.

4. I’m grateful that Margot Lesalle started that stupid rumor about what Aaron and I were doing in the boiler room at the Founders’ Day Ball. Thank God for Margot. She always goes for the most obvious rumors.