“We need some towels that your mom won’t notice missing. Show me where they are,” Sandy said. “And a bag you can get rid of. Paper towels and cleaning supplies. You should go take a shower.” She checked the clock on her phone, already smeared with blood. “We don’t have much time.”

It wasn’t until Sandy was almost done cleaning all of it up that she saw Hannah’s little brother standing there behind her. She had no idea how long he’d been there or how much he’d seen.

“Sorry I made such a mess,” she said to him. Because she had to say something.

But he didn’t say a word. He just faded back into the darkness, then disappeared.

Sandy had raced out of Hannah’s house with all that death around her neck. She jumped on her bike and she rode like the fucking wind. What she hadn’t factored in was the rain. Or the way the duffel bag Hannah had given her—way too big for her back and heavier than she would have thought—would leave her so off-balance on the bike. It wasn’t like she could go slow either. Not if she was going to get through this. Because there were things Sandy had seen and done in her life, things that a girl like Hannah would never survive. Not this, though. Never anything like this.

But Sandy had learned a long time ago that you could put a box around the things that you didn’t want to become a part of you—seeing your mom naked on top of some drunk, the popular kid in your eighth-grade class telling everyone you had AIDS, holding your mom’s head over the toilet while she puked. You couldn’t get rid of those things completely, but they didn’t have to seep out, mix with the rest. They didn’t have to become a part of you.

So Sandy put her head down and rode as fast as she could. And she tried not to notice how her back seemed extra wet under the bag, she hoped not from the blood seeping through. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and she’d be there. And this would be something she’d be on her way to forgetting.

At least Sandy had known where to go. A place she knew from Jenna was dark and quiet and kept all its secrets. A place where no one could see a goddamn thing.

It was pouring by the time Sandy made that last turn toward the Essex Bridge, but her bike felt steady and her legs felt strong and she was almost there. It was almost over. And then she would make it like none of this had ever happened. She started pedaling even harder down that last hill, even though it was pouring rain, like maybe if she pedaled hard enough, she would take flight.

The animal came out of nowhere—a chipmunk, a squirrel, a possum. A shadow, maybe. It was too dark to know for sure. Too late to stop. Definitely too late to recover. Too late to stay on her bike. The rest happened in slow motion, the bike flying out in one direction, Sandy in the other. And the whole time her thinking only one thing: Hold on to the bag.

And she had, despite the burning pain in her knee and her arm. But the bag had gotten tangled beneath her as she fell and slid, her full weight crushed against it. And the baby inside. It wasn’t until Sandy stood up, covered in blood—hers and maybe the baby’s—that she knew: There are some things too horrible for even the strongest box to contain.

There had been one good thing about all that rain. It had made it easier to dig. Not a hole big enough for the bag or the towels. Just the baby. Because all Sandy had was her bare hands. Looking back on it now, the ground being so soft and loose, so easy to move, right up there near the edge of that creek, made it the last place she ever should have put a thing she wanted to stay buried.

Molly must have gotten up and come around the booth to sit next to Sandy while she was talking.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said, reaching forward to wrap her arms around Sandy. “I promise.”

It wasn’t until Molly was hugging her that Sandy realized she was shaking. Or how hard she was crying.

JENNA

JUNE 12, 1994

If I had a gun, I’d shoot myself. But I don’t have a gun. And I don’t have any pills. And I can’t stand the sight of blood.

Because all I keep seeing over and over again is Two-Six ripping off my underwear. And all I keep hearing is the Captain saying “Go ahead, you take it” after he lifted my skirt to show my ass to Two-Six like I was some kind of cow.

The Captain wasn’t holding me from behind yet. I guess he thought maybe I’d be okay with it. Maybe even into it. Two guys at once, out there in the woods.

He’d been hinting about me screwing Two-Six all night, said he was depressed and that he deserved a good time. And they were fucked up out of their minds. We were all so wasted.

Then the Captain was like “No, I’m serious, I want you to let him do it.” And when I said, “Fuck no,” he said, “How many guys have you banged? What’s one more?”

And I thought about saying, One—YOU. You’re the only guy I ever banged. But I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I slapped him. And maybe that was what did it. Because this thing happened to the Captain’s face. Like the lights went out. Like his insides died right in front of me.

Then he grabbed me from behind and lifted my dress all the way up so that even my tits were hanging out there so anybody could see. And I kept waiting for the Captain to come to his senses. And say: No, man, let her go. Especially when I started to scream and then started to cry. And you could still hear the noise even though the Captain had his hand smashed over my mouth.

But he didn’t say stop. No one did. No one said another word.

Molly

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” I asked Sandy once we were outside Pat’s.

“I’ve got my bike,” she said, motioning to it leaning up against the side of the diner.

The bike. I’d been trying not to picture the scene, but now there it was in my head—Sandy’s body flipping off the bike, the bag strapped to her back with its unimaginable cargo. Her falling explained everything about the suspicious “condition” of the baby’s body. And here she was, still riding around on that bike? She probably didn’t have a choice. There surely wasn’t an extra car sitting in her driveway. But my God. It was hard to believe she was upright after what she had been through. After what she was still going through, with her mom missing.

I had been thinking about Steve, too. And Barbara. I would have thought I’d feel some sort of satisfaction where Barbara was concerned—look at what all your judgment hath wrought. But what I felt for all of them was pity.

“I could drive you home?” I offered, still staring at the bike. “We could put your bike in the back of my car.” Or we could throw it out.

“Yeah,” Sandy said, but not like she was agreeing. She was staring out into the distance at the cars racing up and down Route 33. “We’re, um, kind of in between places at the moment.”

“Oh.” That didn’t sound good. “Where did you sleep last night?”

“My friend Aidan’s house,” she said, then her eyes got wide. “Shit, I forgot, you know his mom. Please don’t tell her. I don’t want to get Aidan in trouble.”

“I won’t tell her,” I said. “Of course not.”

I saw it then when she turned to get her bike, peeking down from the left sleeve of her T-shirt: the thorned stem of a rose. The flower girl.

This was the person Stella had been hiding—Sandy. And not because she was the mother of the dead baby or to protect Aidan. But because Stella was ashamed that her son had picked this girl.

“Why don’t you come to my place for now?” I said. I wasn’t going to let her go back to Aidan’s. God knew what Stella would say if she found Sandy there. “Later I can take you somewhere else if you want. Do you have any other stuff you need to pick up?”