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When I arrive back at the truck with my wadded shirt tucked into the cap, Wyatt's already got the engine running. Matty's head pokes out between the seats, and I close the door to ­Chateau ­Tuscano behind me, leaving Dr. Ken Belcher's shrunken form sprawled across the white marble. His eyes are still open, his face frozen in disgust and surprise and the indignity of being forced to
crawl across his own floor. I didn't like him, and I didn't mind killing him so much, but I'm glad as hell to be away from his body and the bloody, green-and-white Valor card perched on his chest.

As soon as I'm in the passenger seat, Wyatt starts driving, and I watch his messed-up tattoo flash and flex as he spins the big wheel. I'm amped up from running away, from the feeling of being chased, from the fear of being caught by the only authority left. Yet I'm also strangely relaxed from the most indulgent shower of my life. I feel like I've been washed clean, like the water contained some secret substance with the power to heal and reverse time and generally burn away the bad stuff. And my hair smells amazing, like gardenias made of moonlight. Suave doesn't come in this scent.

“I packed a bag full of food.” Wyatt's all business now as he drives. “You might want to put it in the fridge or something before Matty goes crazy.”

As I scoot into the back of the truck, my hip grazes his elbow. He grimaces and swallows, and I know then that he still likes me, or at least feels attracted me, no matter which invisible rule I broke last night. I find the bag, one of those reusable grocery bags that looks like it's never been reused, and pull ham and cheese and big, purple grapes out to stuff in the tiny fridge. There's also a few cans of sparkling water, which cracks me up. If you want bubbly water, why not drink soda, which actually tastes good? But I'm running out of money, so I guess I'll drink it when I have to.

We get back onto the main road without a problem, and Wyatt turns in the direction of his old neighborhood. I guess he feels safe there, in that abandoned section where he used to hang out with his brother. With Max. Just thinking about him, this guy I've never met, makes me feel sick to my stomach. I want to get through my list and be free, but I don't want to get to Max. Or, for that matter, to the name before his. But I've got three more deliveries ahead of them, so I'll worry about it later.

I wedge myself back into the passenger seat and stretch, enjoying the breeze. I'm usually in the back, trying not to puke while I deal with the fact that I've just done something horrible. But right now, it feels free and peaceful up here with my feet on the dash and the dying warmth of the fall sun battling with the winter wind whooshing outside the open door. The red clock turns over to 12:00:00, and I wrap my hand firmly around the oh-shit handle and just enjoy feeling young and alive for a moment, in body if not in mind.

“You have a really pretty smile,” Wyatt says quietly.

I smile back until I notice the black Humvee barreling toward us, straddling the middle line of the narrow road.

6.

Sharon Mulvaney

Wyatt swerves onto the shoulder as he throws an arm across my chest, pinning me to my seat. “Jesus Christ!” he shouts. “What the hell?”

The mail truck bounces, kicking up a spray of gravel and almost flying down the shoulder and into the woods. Wyatt wrenches the wheel one-handed, and we're suddenly back on the asphalt, squealing.

The Humvee misses us by a bare few inches as it flies over the winding road in the opposite direction. Toward Dr. Ken Belcher and Chateau Tuscano. Just like the SUV outside of Kelsey's neighborhood, the window glass was so dark that I couldn't see anyone or anything inside. I didn't see a logo, but I know it must be someone
from Valor, going to the mansion we've just left. Wyatt stomps the gas, and the truck jumps forward and shoots up the hill as fast as an old mail truck can go. As soon as we crest the incline, he realizes that his arm is thrown right across my boobs and lets it drop sheepishly.

“My mom calls that the ‘grocery-saving response,'” I say, trying to tone down the awkwardness.

“Groceries saved,” he says weakly. “Yay for groceries.” He drives for a minute, both hands on the steering wheel, pink splotches high on his cheeks. “So where to next? Food, rest, lucky number six?”

I take a deep breath and blow air through my bangs. Every time I look at the red number on the dash and see the seconds flying away forever, I have a tiny heart attack. I know I need to hurry, that I can get three more done today and be that much closer to freedom. But the exhaustion is setting in, and I want nothing more than to snarf the food from Chateau Tuscano and find some quiet place to nap off the constant squirts of adrenaline and tears. I don't generally have a lot of free time, and the free time I do have I fill with all-ages shows at the Masquerade and exciting nights knitting alone in my room by my old CD player or watching reality TV while graphing out new cross-stitch projects that say rude things. Now free time is a chasm of dread. I want to finish my list. But I don't know how I'm going to live with myself after I scratch through those last two names.

All I really want is to run away and have more time with Wyatt. My brain knows that there's a good chance that I'm going to die and
that America is already dead and that the world has ended and that my life, whatever it was, is over. And yet my heart knows that every second of happiness and hope is valuable and special and worth dying for. I feel this demanding pull to make Wyatt like me again. To get him to kiss me again. To cram as much Wyatt as I can into the remaining hours of my life. As soon as it's his brother's turn, our time is up. Forever.

At the very best, his brother takes the deal, and Wyatt goes with him to help, just like he's helping me.

I want to quit for the day, so much. But we're out here already, on the road and pumped full of adrenaline. We're fed and clean and have used real toilets. The only reason not to go to the next house is flat-out cowardice.

One glance at the dashboard clock confirms it for me.

“Lucky number six,” I say. And I do feel kind of lethal, kind of badass. I can always get all the easy assignments over with, then balk for the last twenty-four hours.

I lean over and turn on the GPS, scrolling to the next name. Sharon Mulvaney. The address is in a bad neighborhood that's in the news every other week for a meth house being busted or prostitution or, one time, illegals being fenced as slaves. When you drive by the sign, it doesn't look that much different from my own neighborhood, but it's like one of the houses inside went rancid and corrupt with cancer and started just eating up the whole subdivision until it
was rotten through and through like a busted pumpkin after Halloween. My bus doesn't even stop there anymore. I guess all of the high school kids dropped out.

“God, I hate Oak Hollow.” I lean back against my chair.

“It's pretty skeevy.” Wyatt turns right at the bullet-hole-pocked stop sign. “My buddy Mikey used to live in here.”

The late morning is pretty and quiet, and the warm fall sun paints the broken-down street in the kindest light possible. If Ashley ­Cannon's neighborhood had given up, this one has just died an awful death and fallen where it stood and gotten nibbled by rats. Graffiti, boards over windows, mangy pit bulls on chains in the front yards. It's about as bad as things get in our town, and I want out of here as fast as possible. In the back of the truck, Matty growls, low in her throat, and it sets me further on edge. I haven't heard her growl yet, not even when I stood at her door, gun in hand, and shot her owner dead.

The truck rolls to a stop in front of a two-story house that must have been cute, once. It's got little lacy designs on the corners, as if Hansel and Gretel had lived here. Now, the way it's caving in on itself, I imagine the wicked witch lurking inside, waiting by a hot oven. There are no cars out front, and the driveway is a steep hill downward, as if the house had sunk twenty feet into the earth. On the porch of the house next door, three thugs in heavy coats smoke, eyeing us. Each guy slips a hand inside his jacket as they stare us down, and I tuck my own gun into my jeans, flat against my spine.

“You sure you don't want to come back later?” Wyatt says. “Get some more food and wait a while? Those dudes don't look too friendly.”

“And who drinks out of paper bags this early in the day? How old are those guys? Like, fifteen?”

That's when I notice a box of empty bottles on the front porch of Sharon Mulvaney's house. And another one by the garage. And a couple of crushed needles in the driveway. Bile rises in my throat when I think about what I'm going to find when I ring that doorbell. Whoever lives here has worse problems than bills from Valor. I'm kind of glad I don't have the fruit basket anymore, because I would probably get jacked just for carrying it around Oak Hollow.

I grab my envelope and slip on my shirt and cap. Sharon's card has a much lower number than the others. But Valor never promised me any answers. They never said it was supposed to make sense.

“Good luck,” Wyatt whispers as I hop down. Although I haven't seen it in a while, he has my other gun on the floor at his feet, and I feel a little better, knowing he's got my back. I reach between the seats to pat Matty on the head and let her lick my hand, and that feels like good luck too.

But when I reach for my lucky locket, it's gone. I suck in a breath like I've been punched in the chest.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

My heart's frantic as I claw desperately along the crack of the
passenger seat and scramble bitten, Christmas-painted nails along the floorboards.

“What's wrong?”

I look up and meet Wyatt's eyes, my other fist wrapped around the button on my shirt. How can I make him understand? The whole thing seems so stupid, that I could be as upset about a locket as I was about killing someone. But my body doesn't know the difference between real and useless panic, and in this moment, my heart doesn't either.

“My lucky locket. It's one of the only things my dad left behind. I wear it every day.” I touch my forehead to the butt-warm plastic seat in resignation. “And I left it on the bathroom counter at Chateau Tuscano.”

“Do you want to—”

“We can't. They're already there.”

“Can you just—”

“No. Whatever it is, no. It's gone, Wyatt. It's just . . . gone.”

Before he can say something annoying or trite, I turn to go. Without my lucky locket, I feel more exposed and doomed than ever. As I jog down to the front door, the eyes of the thugs next door crawl lazily over my body like maggots. I'm glad to get under the overhang, hidden by untended bushes and out of their sight. The doorbell doesn't ring when I press it, so I knock on the door, disgusted by the softness of the wood under my fist. More rot in
Oak Hollow. Big surprise. My stomach's full of acid and my mouth's full of cotton and something nearby stinks to high hell, like an ­opossum dragged itself under the porch and died.

No one answers my knock. No footsteps, no shadows moving behind the fake stained-glass windows. I knock again, harder. No car, no answer. God, I hope she's home, whoever she is. I don't know how I'll ever get the courage to come here again. When I glance back at the still-running truck, Wyatt is standing in front of the passenger seat, legs spread and arms crossed so that his biceps stretch the arms of his T-shirt. His face is dark and sharp, his jaw jutting out and stubbled. He can be pretty fierce when he wants to, and I wonder how much of a badass he was when he was running with the wrong crowd, how tough he is on the lacrosse field. Has the mild-mannered rich man's son ever killed anyone before yesterday?

“You gonna have to walk in,
chica
,” calls a voice from the house next door. “Sherry don't answer the door no more.”

I refuse to look around to see what they're doing, but Wyatt's eyes are on the other porch. After tugging my sleeve down over my fingers, I grab the dull door handle and push. It's unlocked. Ever so slowly, the door creaks open, and the scent of raw garbage slaps me in the face. It's dark inside, the only light coming from a sliding glass door to the back porch. That one's ajar too.

Cold ice seeps down my spine. Everything about this place feels wrong. The stench of rot and damp walls, the piles of trash on the
floor. The door catches on a teetering tower of papers and mail, and I slip inside, leaving it open. The walls shrink in around me, and it's like being in a haunted house. Nothing can be this ruined and still lived in. Big, rusty stains bloom on the wall, and water drips from a tear in the ceiling. Old, faded prints hang askew, and moldering bits of hardened food drip from strange places, like a food fight happened twenty years ago and was never cleaned up.

I take a deep breath and stop, midgulp. I don't want that much of this air in me.

Something touches my leg, and I jump back into the doorway. It's a skinny old cat covered in sores, and it makes a strangled, pleading sort of meow at me, winking a destroyed eye. It rubs against me again, like it's freezing to death and I'm a space heater. I nudge it aside and press farther into the house, one hand to where my locket should be.

“Sharon Mulvaney?” I call. My voice echoes, and something thumps irritably overhead.

I don't want to, but I head upstairs, testing each drooping step with my shoe before entrusting it with my weight. The stairs are swaybacked and covered in shag carpet the color of smog. I think it used to be blue. Faded photographs march up the wall with me, and I shiver when I see someone I recognize. A little girl from my second-grade class, Ann Filbert. I wanted to be friends with her, but my mom said that she was trash, and I couldn't ever go to her house.
There are several incarnations of bad school pictures of Ann and an older boy who looks progressively more emo. In the last picture, he's dressed like a Juggalo, growling at the camera at a birthday party. There's a creepy man with a pornstache in a few of the early pictures, but not in the most recent ones.

Ann herself just looks like a nice girl, which is how I always thought of her. Pretty, kind of skinny, always dressed in hand-me-down clothes but so sweet that nobody ever said anything about it. After I showed up to spend the night with her in second grade and my mom wouldn't let me get out of the car because her house was so old and dirty, we never talked again. That was a different house in a different neighborhood, and this one is much worse. She still goes to my school and is as popular as a dirt-poor girl can be, although we're invisible to each other now.

Why are Ann's pictures in this house? It's another kill that can't be a coincidence.

I'm almost to the top of the stairs, and there's a new smell up here. Less garbage, more chemical, plus the overhanging funk of cigarettes. A weak cough totters down the hallway, and I follow. As I pass a bathroom that looks like a meth lab, I pull my shirt over my nose to cover the sweet, sickly reek wafting out. The door to the next room is shut, and the one after that has a caved-in hole where the roof should be. The piles of all-black clothes and stompy boots and Insane Clown Posse posters tell me it was the emo guy's room.
Maybe still is, since there's a manky sort of burrow on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, the sheets crusted around the shape a human body would make.

At the end of the hall, I stop, heart thumping in my ears like a claustrophobic kid locked in a toy chest. Something rustles in the last room, and I imagine a giant snake, doubled back on itself, waiting for me. My hand is on my gun, and I'm about to pull it out when someone coughs raggedly, something a snake just can't do. The door is ajar, so I push it all the way open.

“What are you here for, honey?” Her voice is a rasp, barely more than her cough.

She looks sixty and she sounds eighty, but she's probably only forty. She lounges in a big, flimsy brass bed, her skeletal arms and legs splayed out like a broken puppet. The stained nighty dangling off her sharp collarbone was probably supposed to be sexy, but she's so bony that it just looks like a child's camisole on a coat hanger.

“Are you Sharon Mulvaney?” I ask.

“You here for a tweak?” she rasps. “Joey ain't here.”

“Are you Sharon Mulvaney?”

“You a friend of Annie's? She moved out. Didn't leave an address. Little bitch took the car, too. You find her, you tell her I'm gonna beat her ass when she comes crawling back.”

“Are. You. Sharon. Mulvaney?” I spit out each word through clenched teeth.

“Is that for me?” She waves one shriveled hand at the envelope. “If it's a subpoena, I ain't taking it. Or did Jesse finally send me my check?”

“I can't give it to you until you tell me that you're Sharon ­Mulvaney.”

“I don't go by Mulvaney.” She turns her head to cough into a dirty spot on the pillow. “Went back to my married name. I'm ­Sharon Filbert. They call me Sherry.” I hold the signature machine for her because I'm worried it's so heavy it could break her hand, or maybe she'd try to steal the damn thing and sell it for parts. Her signature is just a ragged
X
. As I click accept, she looks me up and down, her gaze hungry in a weird, detached sort of way. “Say, you want to make some money? I can't trick anymore, but the boys next door would probably pay. They don't hit too much if you do what they tell you.”