The next morning, I end up getting on the bus at the same stop Marco and I both used to use, before he got his license, and a car. I sneak on between two students, head down, headphones on, but the stealth mode is unnecessary—the driver doesn’t even look my way.

This was my bus at the start of the year, anyway, before I moved in with Joe. My seat is still empty, third row from the back, where Marco would sit beside me. The whole row is abandoned now, like we’ve just vanished and nobody noticed.

I spent last night reading articles on my phone about Liam Chandler, to make sure this Nolan guy was who he said he was. Most of the articles are older, from early spring two years ago. Liam Chandler was a senior when he disappeared, and, according to the articles, great at everything. Sports, academics, involved in community service, with plenty of friends, from what I can gather by the number of people interviewed, claiming to be his best friend.

The articles stopped for the most part by summer, except around graduation, where there was a tribute to him in the student paper, lest anyone forget.

After that, crickets.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to write to Nolan, to explain. And also, to apologize for jumping down his throat, for being angry at him just for being someone like me, with no more answers than I have. Instead, I decide to just skip that part and hope he doesn’t notice. Nolan said yesterday that he had a car, and suddenly everything feels more possible. I told him I had a plan about today. The truth is, it was only half a plan. He doesn’t realize it, but he’s just provided the other half.

In the middle of first period, when the teacher tells us to use the class to prepare for our finals, I slip my phone out from under my desk and send him a message.

Hey Visitor, hey Nolan,

Sorry getting used to that. Any chance you’re free this afternoon, say around 3pm? I need a ride. It’s in both of our best interest. Someone who can tell us about the signal, help us decipher it. But I also need you to not ask any questions.

Also, here’s my number, probably easier than going through the forum, right?

I refresh my messages over and over, but eventually, two classes later, a text comes through instead.

Hi KJ, sorry, Kennedy. Make it 3:30 and I’m in. Where should we meet?

I smile, then try to think of a neutral meeting place. I get home at three, and we’re already cutting it close, timing-wise. In the end, I justify sending him Joe’s address by the fact that Sutton knows him, and a quick Google search gives me his address, too. The whole way home I’m thinking about this—about Nolan and the car and answers—because we’re so close, and I know just where to get them. I’m not thinking clearly, and I’m so fully distracted that I walk into a complete ambush, with Joe waiting for me at the kitchen table.

It’s 3 p.m. and he’s got a two-liter bottle of soda in front of him, half empty, and he’s peeling at the label. It looks like he’s been there awhile, a condensation ring forming on the table, his elbow resting on a wrinkled sheet of paper.

“Oh,” I say, suddenly remembering. The papers in front of him. The questions. I close my eyes. “I’m sorry, Joe, I made plans. Can we do this another time?”

But he’s already shaking his head. “This was the time you gave me, Kennedy. And you promised. We’re doing this now.”

I look at the clock, drop my bag from my shoulder, and perch on the edge of the kitchen chair. “Okay,” I say. Best to get this over with, make it quick, be done with it.

But it looks like Joe doesn’t want to start, either.

I drum my fingers on the table. Joe looks at me over the edge of the page, then focuses on the questions.

“ ‘On the early morning of December fourth,’ ” he reads, and then he puts the pages down. “You know, you were right. This is pointless.”

I sigh, my entire body relaxing.

“They’re going about this the wrong way. Pulling at pieces. Why don’t you start instead,” he says.

This was not part of the deal. Not part of our agreement. “We can just tell them we did it,” I suggest with a small grin.

He closes his eyes and picks up the paper again. He speaks faster, robotic, like he doesn’t really want to hear my answers. His fingers tremble, and he readjusts the papers to try to get them to stop. “ ‘On the early morning of December fourth,’ ” he says in a gravelly voice, “ ‘what time did you leave Marco Saliano’s house?’ ”

I close my eyes. “Just tell me the answer, Joe. Tell me what to say.”

He looks up, fixes his eyes on mine. “The truth, Kennedy.”

The truth. It’s hard to remember now. It’s hard to tell the difference between what I remember and what I want to remember; what I was told versus what I saw. “The thing is,” I begin, “I don’t remember looking at a clock. I don’t remember, Joe. I’ve spent six months trying not to think about it, and all these details, they’re just not there anymore.” I shake my head, both trying to remember and trying not to. “There was a storm, and I was waiting for it to let up before I went home. We went over all this, with the police. And they gave me the time, based on that. Based on what Marco said.”

“And,” Joe adds, “based on the nine-one-one call. At one-eighteen a.m.”

I nod slowly. “Right.”

He nods at me. “Okay, you’re doing good,” he says, even though I’m not. He moves his finger down the page, to the next question. Truthfully, this is already going better than expected. He’s not going to force an answer from me where no answer can be found. His pointer finger stops at the next line. “ ‘How did you enter the house?’ ”

Easy question. “My bedroom window.” The house was originally a ranch, before the second-floor loft addition. All our bedrooms were on the main level, accessible through the windows with a few strategically placed steps—either via the deck railing, or a bench pulled below.

As if anticipating this answer, he moves to the next one. “ ‘Was the window already open?’ ”

“The window was how I left it,” I say, my eyes feeling wide and dry, like I’m in a trance. “Mostly closed, so the cold air wouldn’t come through. But cracked open so I could get my fingers underneath and push it up when I got back home.”

I’m there, suddenly, kneeling on the back railing, my fingers drenched from the rain, slipping on the glass, trying to wedge it open—

“ ‘What made you…’ ” He pauses, the line between his eyes deepening, his brows furrowed. “ ‘What made you leave your room after you got back home?’ ”

I shoot my head up, my eyes meeting his. “I don’t understand the question,” I whisper.

He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, not wanting to take this trip down memory lane any more than I do. “I think it means, I think they’re trying to understand…you got home after sneaking out, sometime around one-ten or one-fifteen in the morning. So you climbed through the window and you were in your room, and you kept the door closed, right? So no one would know you were gone?” He cringes. “So, they want to know, uh, what made you leave the room after you got back.”

I don’t answer. I’m frozen.

“Was the door already open, Kennedy? Did you see something? Were there lights on?”

And then I’m back outside the window again, peering into the shadow house; it’s raining, and my fingers shake from the cold.

“Kennedy.” His warm hand is on my arm, and I flinch. Joe looks down at my hands—I didn’t realize they were shaking now, too. Joe puts the paper down, the air suddenly charged, and he tips his head just slightly to the side. “What happened that night? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I close my eyes, shake my head. “I hid,” I say.

“I know.”

“I tried to call for help.”

“You did, Kennedy. You did. They have the nine-one-one call. We all heard it. You did everything you could.”

Our voices are so low, and his eyes are my mother’s and the shadow house is here. It’s right here, so close, like suddenly there’s just the thinnest film between us and the blurry other side, and there’s a tear, the plastic pulling apart, so I can see—

His phone rings, jarring us both. The moment is broken. The shadow house is gone, Joe is Joe, and I am just me.

He doesn’t move to answer, doesn’t move at all. “It’s okay,” I say. “You should get it.” I stand from the kitchen table, the blood rushing from my head, the room tilting momentarily.

“Kennedy,” he says, reaching an arm for me.

But I’m already halfway to my room. I’m behind the door, my back pressed up against it, trying to slow my heartbeat.

I hear him answering the call, moving farther away, until the sound of his voice disappears.

I’m alone, and I’m safe again.