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I peered into the darkness. After a few seconds, my eyes adjusted. Jordan stood close to the trunk of one of the massive trees, looking like a child beside its towering height.

“What’s she doing?” Emily whispered.

We watched her for a few minutes. She didn’t move. I stepped back from the railing, pulling Emily with me. Maybe she’d seen us or noticed we’d all gone silent. She wasn’t going to expose what she was doing if she knew we were watching her.

After a few minutes, I saw a glimmer of light as Jordan raised her arm, seeming to reach toward us.

After another flash of light, I realized what we were looking at—the screen of Jordan’s phone. She was holding it out at arm’s length, pointing it in our direction.

“She’s recording us,” I whispered.

TWENTY-EIGHT

SAMANTHA

Emily and I moved farther away from the railing. I went to Patrick’s side and whispered in his ear. “Jordan is out there. It looks like she’s recording our conversation.”

Patrick pulled back, looking at me as if I’d told him she was pointing a gun at us.

Keith stood and went to the railing. He shouldn’t have done that. Was Jordan wondering why we were suddenly so quiet? I felt I should say something to make us sound normal, but I couldn’t think of a single word. Besides, my voice would betray me, a high-pitched tone announcing that I was playacting for her.

“Now we’re screwed,” Patrick whispered. “We were talking about the body, the cops, everything. If she was there the whole time…”

“I don’t think you can hear clearly from that distance,” Emily said. “If she captured anything, it was probably just a few words here and there.”

“A few words are enough.” Patrick walked down the deck steps, across the pool area, and up the concrete steps to the berm where Jordan stood.

I hurried after him. If she told him she had recorded us, he might start overexplaining. He would say too much, go too far, fretting about doing the right thing.

Jordan remained in the same spot, but her phone was nowhere in sight. Instead, she was holding her notebook.

“Were you filming us?” Patrick asked.

I felt relief wash through me. His assumption of film over an audio recording made it sound less like we were worried about what we’d said. Anyone would be annoyed at being filmed. I moved closer to him and put my arm around his waist, deeply grateful he was being cautious.

Jordan didn’t move. She didn’t make eye contact with either of us. She didn’t speak.

“Were you?” Patrick asked.

Again, we were met with silence and a disconnected gaze.

“Can you hear me?” Patrick asked.

She wasn’t even blinking.

“Do you think something’s wrong with her?” I asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” Jordan turned and began walking back to her house.

Patrick raised his voice, calling after her. “You can’t film people without permission. If you were filming, I want to see you delete the file.”

She didn’t turn around.

Patrick glanced at me as if asking for permission to run after her, grab her arm, force her to give her phone to him.

The front door of Jordan’s house opened, and she was gone. The only sound came from crickets, their singing sounding like a warning in my panicked imagination.

“Maybe I was right,” Patrick said. “Maybe she does know who killed him. But if she does, why didn’t she report it?”