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“You’ll help me from right here and stay dry. Wait like four minutes, then call it for me, okay?”

“Fine. Go.”

He pressed a quick, rough kiss to my lips. “I’ll be right back.”

Then he was gone, hopping out and jogging back down the trail, disappearing around the bend. I looked around, noticing the other cars were gone. It was just us out there now. I slumped back into my seat, adjusting the climate controls, the steady purr of the heater filling the cab. Two minutes in, I called him. The phone rang to voicemail. I hung up and dialed again, checking my notifications. Everyone was talking about the same thing.

Crowsnest Confessions.

I ended the call, re-dialed his number, and placed the call on speakerphone so that I could open the website. God only knew what fresh hell was waiting. I logged in with my student ID. The system assigned me a random tag—Anon462. The most recent post at the top had a full username. HauntedMind92. You only got a full name when you made a confession.

HauntedMind92

What do you do when the guilt eats you alive?

When you hear her voice every time you close your eyes?

I swear I didn’t mean to hurt her.

I tried to forget, but the blood won’t wash off. I’m sorry, Britt.

Brittany?

I swallowed, reading it again. My pulse thundered in my ears, my fingers going numb around my phone. This had to be another sick joke, like that video. I scrolled through the comments:

Anon198:Bruh, did you just admit to a crime on a message board?

Anon413:Guilt doesn’t haunt you. People do.

Anon1031:New drinking game: take a shot every time someone confesses to murder.

Anon190:Stop confessing here and go to the cops.

Anon1021:It’s not her voice you should be worried about.

Anon752:Sounds like you need a priest, not a forum.

Who the hell was HauntedMind92?

A faint tapping sound had me jumping in my seat. I looked around but saw nothing. I exited the website and dialed Ryder again. Another tap, louder this time. My hair stood on end.

Had that come from behind me?

I turned slowly, looking through the rear window. There wasn’t anything there. I turned and slammed my hand against the lock button, heart hammering so hard I felt it in my teeth.

“Where are you, Rye?”

I turned on the defroster. His wipers were censored and already sweeping across the glass, clearing the rain in jerky motions. When his phone went to voicemail again, I went to call once more. A text came in.

1031

You shouldn’t have let him go.

Poor little cheerleader. All alone.

Panic clawed up my throat. Another tap — harder this time, sharp and certain.

I turned—freezing.