Chapter 7

Ethan laid a bouquet of white jasmine at Zoey's grave.

He remembered the year they'd met. Fifteen. Both of them.

He'd transferred into Rosewood Prep Academy, tenth grade, section E.

The teacher had assigned them as deskmates.

Between periods, a few classmates had pulled him aside and whispered.

"That Zoey girl? She grew up eating garbage."

"Stay away. She probably has something contagious—"

"Yeah, and keep anything valuable hidden. She's a thief."

"My notebook disappeared into the trash last week and I swear it ended up in her backpack the next day."

"Can you smell her from here? I can smell her."

Ethan Calloway looked like the hero of a romance novel—soft dark hair, the kind of cheekbones painters obsessed over.

Middle school had been a parade of blushing girls passing him folded notes.

But in reality, he was the kid who got suspended.

He listened to his new classmates whispering. Then he grinned slowly and raised his hand high in the air.

"Teacher? These guys have been talking crap about a classmate."

Zoey looked at him, startled.

He gave her an easy, arrogant tilt of the eyebrows.

"I've got you, new desk neighbor."

His own home wasn't exactly storybook material either. His father was a drunk with a heavy hand. His mother was soft and frightened and never stood up for anyone.

But Ethan took after none of them. He'd been wild since birth. When he was eight, he'd split his father's head open with a beer bottle.

Because of that wild, vicious, loyal boy, Zoey's high school years had been easier than they had any right to be.

During the day, Zoey studied. After school, she walked behind the school to the dumpsters and fished out bottles to redeem for cash.

Ethan didn't care. He dug right in next to her, hands quick as a pickpocket's.

"Zoey," he said once, without looking up, "you've earned enough for a decent meal by now. Buy yourself something good to eat. You're skin and bones."

Her eyes lit up anyway, shining.

"I work hard, but Mom and Dad work harder."

"They work days and nights."

"If I earn enough, they won't have to work so much."

Ethan's mouth twisted.

"Twenty-four hours a day on the clock. I still don't get why your family's so broke."

Zoey mimicked his eyebrow-tilt.

"Grown-up stuff. You wouldn't understand."

He didn't understand.

Not that strong, bright, stubborn girl.

Not what could have made her turn toward her own death and walk into it without flinching.

Claire Whitmore was a detective.

She'd just finished the most unbelievable case of her career.

The only daughter of one of the richest families on the east coast had starved herself into stomach cancer because she was fed trash for years.

The more Claire dug, the colder her blood ran.

The more she ached for that little girl who'd grown up like a weed in the cracks of concrete.

Until she looked at the surveillance photo.

And realized, slowly, that she'd met Zoey before.

When Claire was in college, she'd worked odd summer jobs. One year she'd picked up a seasonal shift at a print bindery.

She'd seen a tiny, wiry girl hauling reams of paper across the floor and had asked the shift lead, curious:

"Are we that short on help? We're hiring elementary schoolers now?"

The girl had looked up with bright eyes and smiled. Two dimples in her cheeks.

"I'm going into eighth grade!"

Claire had laughed. "Still pretty young."

"When I was your age, all I cared about was going out with my friends after school."

The girl's smile hadn't dimmed.

"If I make enough money now, I can go out every day when I'm grown up!"

Claire had suddenly felt sad in a way she couldn't explain.

Years later, Claire was walking home from the precinct and passed a public park.

Without meaning to, she noticed a little girl on one of the swings.

The girl's eyes were bright. She smiled with two dimples in her cheeks.

"Daddy, higher! Higher!"

"You got it, sweetheart!"

The girl's father's face creased into a huge, delighted smile.

A soft-featured woman crouched a few feet away, taking picture after picture on her phone.

Claire sat down on a bench and watched for a long time.

When the little girl finally got tired, she slipped off the swing, took her father's hand on one side and her mother's on the other, and started walking toward the parking lot.

"Mom, I'm hungry! You said we could get KFC today!"

"Yes, yes. What else do you want?"

"And… I want that little toy car from Miss Yana's shop…"

Claire watched them go.

And she thought about the girl who should have grown up to be that girl.

Who should have been swinging higher. Who should have begged for fried chicken and a toy car. Who should have walked home between two parents who loved her.

Who never would.