Chapter 2

Alice

December—A Year Later

I'm taking a Jell-O shot when my dead dad walks in.

A wobble shivers across the room. A stutter, like the click of a shutter. The music's pulsing bass dims. And there he is.

He's so real—sad and disappointed as he sees the mess I've become since he disappeared. He's wearing the same clothes he wore that last night, a suit jazzed up with a Santa tie and the string of tinsel my mom wrapped around his neck when they were dancing. He's standing across the living room, a sea of teenagers stretched between us.

It isn't really him. My dad's dead. My whole family's dead. I know this because they wouldn't have left me behind. They were victims, too, although of what I don't know.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge my dad from my vision. I'm not sure why I've started seeing him lately. Why I think I see him. Maybe it's that time of year, the anniversary in a few weeks.

Teenagers whirl wildly across the living room. Music throbs. Rainbow strobe lights ping around the downstairs. Somebody shoves against me. The house party has gotten out of control. Maya used to invite only friends to these parties she throws in empty vacation homes around Black Lake. But that number seems to have grown lately. There must be thirty teenagers here, some I don't even recognize.

I'm right in the middle of it, but I feel totally alone.

I tug on the strapless top Maya loaned me. "Come on, Alice!" she'd pleaded. "You have to come to this party! It's gonna be lit !"

Just being here makes my stomach twist and squirm. My body feels shivery, my lungs rigid, unable to get enough air. Every nerve ending is screaming, like I'm caught in the ragged teeth of an electric fence. It's too loud, the air too hot, the smell of teenage sweat and hair products overwhelming.

I've always been overly sensitive. Mom used to call me her orchid child. As a kid, I would cry about my socks getting bunched; I'd feel sick at the overpowering smell of perfume, get upset at loud birthday parties. I could feel what others felt, even actual pain when they got hurt. My sister, Ella, broke her wrist when she was six, and I swear I actually felt her pain. I cried more than she did.

I shouldn't have come here, to this house. I feel like I've fallen through the looking glass, like the world I live in has become unfamiliar.

"I gotta get out of here," I mutter.

I flee upstairs, find an empty bathroom. I lock the door and throw the window open with adrenaline-numbed fingers, letting the cold winter air slap at my hot cheeks.

Finally, the sounds of the party are muted. Sound can be a trigger for me. I rub my fingers over the ropy scars on my forearm, taking deep breaths.

I hear a burst of laughter on the other side of the door, my friend Runy shouting—drunk or high, he's always something. "She said that, are you fucking kidding me?" And then more laughter.

I shut the bathroom window and splash cool water on my face. I look older than seventeen, my face pinched, mascara smudged. My mother's blue eyes stare back at me. I cut my long, marmalade-colored hair recently, slicing it into a shaggy bob, hoping to not see the ghost of my dead mom every time I looked in the mirror. But here she is.

I touch my reflection. Sometimes the absence of my family is a physical ache. I'd give anything for one more moment with them. To hear their voices. Feel the warmth of their hugs.

My eyes fall to the silver heart locket set on a musical note that hangs around my neck. My mom got it for me as an early Christmas present last year.

You have everything you need right here. She'd flipped open the tiny latch to show me the picture inside, the four of us at Mel and Jack's house for Christmas the year before, wearing matching pajamas and grinning like crazy. It wasn't diamond earrings or a pair of Nike Air Force 1s like Mel got me, but I've worn it ever since.

My fingers reach, almost without my permission, to the clasp. What's the point in wearing it? My family is gone. I unfasten it and drop it into my purse.

I use toilet paper to clean up my mascara, finger-brush my hair; then I dig one of the Ativan I swiped from my aunt Mel from the bottom of my purse and dry-swallow it. The taste it leaves is sharp, acidic.

I'm about to leave the bathroom when my phone buzzes from my purse.

It's my grandma. I hesitate, thinking about our conversation yesterday. I'm not ready to give her an answer, so I press "End."

A knock comes at the door. "Alice?"

It's Maya. I throw the door open, ready with a big, fake smile, but it slides away when I see Jinx behind her.

Jinx moved to Black Lake in October. At first, I thought she was one of the goths who'd come for Halloween with their dark clothes and black makeup, hoping to scare themselves by staying in Killer's Grove. But then she didn't leave. Lately, she and Maya have been hanging out.

I can't figure out her vibe. Usually, I can feel people's energy. Their anger or sadness or whatever. It's like a hyperawareness, I guess, or a sixth sense. If I'm not careful, people's energy can float right into mine. But not Jinx. She's like looking into Black Lake, murky, opaque.

"You okay?" Maya's brown eyes are cool and assessing.

Queen of to-do lists and high-achieving goals, Maya has a ten-year plan that freaks me out. She's the type who gets shit done. If she wants it, she makes it happen. Only Maya would find a way to make money throwing parties in empty vacation homes. And this one is perfect: massive, mostly isolated, near the lake. It's how she's saving up to pay for college. Maya's here to make money, and I'm here for ... what? I don't even know. Oblivion, maybe.

"I'm fine," I say.

"You sure?"

"Totally. I just want to party."

I push past them and head downstairs, into the writhing bodies, the pulsing music, the steamy heat. My dead dad isn't there, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or sad.

I grab another Jell-O shot, tossing it back as I drift from room to room. I hover outside little cliques, listening to their conversations. Harper gossiping about some mean-girl drama. Runy talking about a booze run. Devin discussing the pros and cons of the new class president.

Nobody seems to notice me. I imagine I'm invisible, like a ghost.

It's even more crowded now. I want the Ativan to kick in. The prickle of anxiety huddling at the base of my neck creeps down my spine. I don't know these people.

If I had my camera—not my iPhone, the Canon Rebel my dad splurged on for my birthday last year—maybe I could see them clearer. I could see when their muscles relax, the masks drop, the people they really are, the things they try to hide. But I stopped taking pictures the night my family disappeared.

I want a cigarette. Not that vaping crap. A real cigarette like my aunt Mel used to smoke, sneaking outside during family gatherings like nobody knew what she was doing. She doesn't smoke anymore. Not since she had Finn.

"Runy!" I shout over the music, miming a smoking motion. He shakes his head, eyes like saucers. Definitely high.

The girl Runy is dancing with says something to him. Her mouth moves, the word freak twisting her lips. She cackles loudly. Eyes turn toward her, then dart to me. Their faces change. I see it. The buzzkill. The freak. The one left behind.

I flush and turn away, pushing through the crowd.

I'm aware of all their theories, the rumors, how their stories twisted and turned, bouncing from one person to the next. It was a satanic cult. A serial killer. They were involved with a criminal gang. They were drug dealers. It was group suicide. They faked their deaths and were now in witness protection.

And then the unofficial verdict: that my father had killed my mother and Ella, hidden their bodies, then killed himself.

But that didn't answer one question: Why was I left?

I stare at the teenagers on the dance floor. Prickles scatter up the back of my neck, an eerie, sinister feeling clawing at my skin. I hate it here. The thought comes at me in a violent rush. Until I get away from Black Lake, I'll never be anything but a freak.

The Ativan is kicking in, blending with the Jell-O shots. A gentle fog winds its way through my body. I float across the room to the bay window. The world outside is velvety dark, a handful of Christmas lights dotting the black.

A sudden flash catches my attention. Someone is driving toward Killer's Grove. The headlights flicker, dark, then light, then dark again, like they are swaying. Or maybe that's just me. Something's clenching in my gut, something sharp and painful. I don't feel quite right, and it's more than the Jell-O shots or the Ativan.

And then I see a shadow, something shifting in the darkness across the street. Someone is watching the house. I press my nose to the window but can't see who it is. The streetlight is out, and their face is hidden by the darkness. But I can feel their gaze hot on my skin.

My breath becomes shallow, and then, for a flash, not even a second, I'm back in that car, the world whirling, metal crunching. And then silence. Only snow falling, the gentle murmur of the wind.

From far away, footsteps crunch over broken glass. A shadow.

Someone was out there.

I jolt back to the present, breathless, shivery with adrenaline, my heart kicking wildly despite the Ativan. What the hell was that? A memory? A daydream? A hallucination?

Outside, the shadow is moving toward the little field that leads into Killer's Grove. Fear sparks like a live wire inside me.

Someone is out there. Again.

I push myself through the living room and throw the front door open. Cold December air slaps me across my face. I jog down the porch stairs and cross the road to the frost-coated field.

I know I'm being dumb. Reckless. I should be running away, not toward this person. But I need to know. Who is it? Why are they watching me?

A hand lands on my arm. "Alice?"

I whirl. Maya, Runy, and Jinx are staring at me.

"Are you okay?" Maya asks.

The house looms behind her, a sticky, malevolent presence. Its black shadows threaten to claw me back, to push me under. Something flares in my mind. A flash of light. A hard crack. Wind raking at my face.

I twist away from Maya, launching myself toward Killer's Grove.

"Alice?" Maya's voice floats after me.

I ignore her. The distant shape of the person has almost reached Killer's Grove.

"Stop!" I shout.

And then, as they reach the tree line, they do.

She looks over her shoulder. Recognition comes in a flash. In the darkness, I can't see her face, but this isn't the first time I've felt eyes on me, seen the whisper of her shadow as it turns a corner.

"Wait!"

But she doesn't. She slips into the trees.

Once again, I'm alone in the dark. The forgotten one. The girl left behind.

The only one still here with a story to tell.