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“And what exactly am I keeping my eyes peeled for?” I ask.

Sienna shoots me a look that suggests I should already know the answer to that question.

“Ah, right. We’re here to find a killer. Gotcha,” I tease, though my attempt at humor falls painfully flat.

Usually, I can find something sarcastic to say just about anything, but seeing the parents of my dead friends has robbed me of even that. Turns out there are some things even I can’t joke away.

Dylan’s face flashes before my very eyes at the thought. He was the one who taught me to laugh at my miseries before my enemies could. If he could only see how far I’ve fallen.

“Max, did you hear a word I just said?” A frustrated Sienna mutters, grabbing my arm and leading me closer to the crowd.

“Sorry. I was—”

“In la-la-land,” she finishes for me. “Why am I not surprised?”

I don’t even take offense to the bite in her tone. I know she’s trying her best to clear my name. It’s not her fault that my mind is wandering to places it shouldn’t.

“Look, if we’re going to find whoever is responsible for killing the Reds, this is the place to do it. I’m certain of it.”

“You mean like you were certain they’d show up at Sydney’s funeral?”

“We don’t know that they weren’t there,” she counters. “I was too busy looking for Mr. Collins, remember? Now that we know he couldn’t have been responsible, I need to widen my suspect pool.”

“I wish Neptune would take a page out of your book,” I grumble.

Our conversation is briefly interrupted by a volunteer offering us battery-operated candles. We each take one, thanking her before picking up right where we left off.

“Speaking of Neptune, do you know what that asshole did?” Sienna snarls, her gaze immediately finding him.

He’s standing with his deputies near the front of the crowd, where Peyton is busy adjusting the microphone at the podium, getting ready to address the town.

“He actually called my ASAC in Washington and complained that I was interfering with his investigation. Can you fucking believe that? Without me, he would probably still be treating these deaths as a string of unfortunate coincidences.”

“I’m sorry, Sienna.”

“Don’t be. I managed to smooth things over with her, but she made it pretty clear that if Neptune calls again, I’ll be on the first flight back to D.C.” She rolls her eyes. “So now I have to be a little more careful about how I go poking around. Which is bullshit, considering I’m probably the only person here who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

I bite back a smile. If there’s one thing Sienna hates more than being told what to do, it’s being told what she can’t do.

Her focus moves across the square, studying the people gathered around us. Everywhere I look, I find bowed heads, tearful embraces, and somber faces. Some people are holding photographs of the five students who died in the mill fire, while others stand quietly beside the memorial, their candles clutched between their hands.

“There has to be someone else,” Sienna mutters, almost to herself. Then she turns toward me. “Can I borrow that twisted writer brain of yours for a second?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Not like it’s doing me much good with it right now. Especially when I can’t seem to get Dylan’s smiling face out of my head.

“Good. Then humor me for a second. If you were writing this story, what would make someone wait ten years to come back here and start killing people? Why now? Why during reunion week, of all times?”

I consider her question, although the answer seems painfully obvious.

Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge. Long enough for resentment to fester, for hatred to take root, and for someone to spend every waking moment imagining what they’d do if they ever got the chance to make the people who hurt them pay.

What better opportunity than a high school reunion? Everyone who made your life miserable is back in the same town, practically gift-wrapped and waiting for you.

“Revenge, right?” Sienna says, as though reading my mind.

“If I were writing it, then yes. Revenge does read better.”