"How do you still have this thing?"

The truck looks even worse than I remember it, and that's saying something. Its rusted red paint is peeling like shedding skin, and the layer underneath ain't much prettier. A light film of grime coats the windshield, and one of the side mirrors hangs precariously from its perch. Even the tires seem reminiscent of the ones ten years ago; I pray to God he's changed them at least once since then.

"Funny, that's your usual line whenever we come home," Carter says, striding past me to reach the passenger side first. The door still creaks when he pulls it open, and I hold back a grimace as I slide across the leather. There's more cracks in it than before, and the edges pull at my leggings when I settle into the seat. Carter doesn't hesitate hopping into his own.

"Have they stopped manufacturing trucks in the last ten years? 'Cause I'm pretty sure we can afford a new one."

"Ah, but where's the sentiment in that?" He runs his hands along the steering wheel like he's greeting an old friend. "This truck's been there through it all."

When he turns the ignition, the car backfires, stalls for a solid minute, then eventually rumbles to life. Even then, it's a dull thrum, like the engine is fighting just to idle in park.

"It's been through it alright," I mutter under my breath. Carter pretends not to hear me and pulls out of the garage.

We take off at a snail's pace down our street, and at each bend, I'm expecting the car to give out. Somehow, it makes it out of our neighborhood in one piece, and it's not long before we're pulling onto the main road and heading across town.

"This is a bad idea," Carter says after some time. His finger taps the wheel to the beat of the music crackling through the speakers, but his grip is tense.

I filled Carter in on the autopsy last night along with what happened at Darren's. It was enough to convince Chloe and Tori of Darren's guilt, but Carter has always been the most level headed in the group. I figured if we're jumping to conclusions too soon, he would bring us back to reality. In the end, he agreed with me; the autopsy isn't enough to connect Mark's death to Darren.

We just disagree on how to get more proof.

"He's part of this, Carter. We just have to find the right thing to make it all stick."

"I'm not denying that, but we don't know what we're looking for, or if there's anything to find! What are the odds Darren's kept any evidence lying around for over a decade? We're taking a risk that might not even pay off in the end."

My mouth twitches, but I keep it shut. I don't want to admit he's right, or that the same thought has crossed my mind more than once since we left.

He takes advantage of my silence. "And are we sure that the coke was actually laced? Isn't it possible Mark was experimenting?"

"He wasn't," I insist. "I know he wasn't. He said as much when I found his stash at the log."

I know my limits, Amber, were his words verbatim. I'm not out here playing with random drugs.

Carter sighs. "Amber—"

"He wasn't lying," I cut in, reading his mind. "I have to believe he was telling the truth about something. I choose this."

"Fine. The coke was laced," he concedes, and I pretend he sounds convinced. "But there's still the chance he didn't buy it from Darren."

"Where else would Mark have gotten it?" I argue, leaning back against the window so I can face Carter head on. "It's not like he was privy to the hot drug spots around town. Do you really think he went searching for the stuff?"

That stumps him. We both know Mark wasn't the type to approach strangers, much less a random drug dealer. There's only one source he would've known about, and we're already halfway to his house.

"I still think it's a bad idea," Carter finally grumbles, but he doesn't turn the truck around. That's all that matters.

I'm not too proud to admit I'm getting desperate, so breaking into Darren's house actually feels sane. Of course, we're driving over with only the hope he isn't home in the middle of a work day and with no knowledge of the security systems he may have in place. Basically, we're winging this shit and hoping for the best.

But that's what we did with the autopsy, and look how that turned out!

After a bout of silence, I clear my throat. "I became a lawyer because of Mark, didn't I."

It's something I've slowly put together over the last few days. I had my suspicions after my conversation with Darren. His father's firm was known for defending unsavory clients, and I'm sure Darren kept the family legacy alive. Tori mentioning my interest in Mark's autopsy in the past solidified my theory.

Carter reaches over and takes my hand across the console. "The second you passed the bar exam, you applied for the narcotics prosecution team. You guys gave Darren and the cartels hell. Mark would've been proud."

It makes me think back to him tutoring me at the log. His study guides, our late night cram sessions before midterms. All the time and effort he put into helping me succeed.

"Yeah. He would be." Hard as I fight it, the lump forms in my throat anyway. I need air, now. "Sorry, can you put your window down?"

"Wouldn't you rather use yours?" Carter asks, squeezing my hand.

I eye him to see if he's messing with me; he just turns his attention back to the road. I reach hesitantly for my crank and, to my surprise, work the window about halfway down.

"You really fixed it?" I ask, biting back a smile.

"Well, you asked me to be your boyfriend," he doesn't try to hide a smile of his own, "I didn't need it to be broken after that."

We drive the rest of the way in comfortable silence, both of us caught up in our own thoughts. I'm just working out the best point of entry into the house when we start the long journey down Darren's driveway. As the circular end comes into view, I'm relieved to find the car from before nowhere in sight.

Carter stops just short of the tree line, using the little foliage available to conceal the truck. It's a vain attempt considering the car is bright red, but it's the best he can do. The road is narrower than I remember, and I realize just how little space there would be if another car drives down it. If Darren comes home while we're still inside, there's no way he won't see the truck — Carter's signature ride in high school.

"One of us has to stay," I say just as he reaches for his seatbelt.

"Huh?"

"Someone has to keep looking out. We can't both get trapped in the Wexler House of Horrors, and Darren will know it's us the minute he sees this thing."

Carter sighs, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. "Ok, quick crash course on driving in case we have to bolt. First, put your foot on the brake and ease the gear—"

"I'm not the one staying," I cut in, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders. "You are."

He looks at me like I've just spoken Yiddish. "Excuse me?"

I check the surrounding trees for the best route to the front door. I still haven't thought of a way to get in, but I'm banking on Mollie and a variation of the classic ding dong ditch. Assuming she's wearing the same heels as before, I figure I can dart past her if I time it just right. With a basic plan of action drafted out, I reach for my door handle, but the lock clicks.

"Carter, there really isn't time for discussion."

"Oh no, I think we can work this discussion into the schedule." He keeps his finger on the lock and eyes me sternly. "You're not gonna bum rush into a potential murderer's house without me."

"Our working theory is manslaughter, actually." I pull my door harder. "And it has to be me. I was just here two days ago, so the house is still fresh in my mind. We don't have time for you to bumble around trying to remember the floor plan after ten years, and I doubt Darren was showing off his dad's private study back then anyway."

"Have you even thought of a way in?" he argues, but with less certainty than before. He knows I'm making a good case for myself; I'm sure he regrets marrying an attorney sometimes.

"Have you?" I shoot back.

"Actually, yes. Wanna know why? Because unlike you, I think things through."

"Well, better lay your plan out quick. This handle isn't gonna hold out much longer." As if on cue, the door creaks after a particularly strong tug.

"Stop it." He moves to grab my shoulder, but I slide closer to the door and out of his reach. "If you think I'm letting you go in there alone while I sit here and twiddle my thumbs, you've lost your mind."

I do stop, but not because he asked me to. I was tuning out most of his speech, but a certain word catches my attention and makes my jaw clench.

Letting.

I feign concern and flick my eyes to the rearview mirror. "Shit, I think it's Darren."

Carter takes the bait hook, line, and sinker. The minute he turns to look behind us, moving his finger in the process, I hit the lock on the passenger side and fly out the door.

Only to land face down in a ditch. A shallow divot running parallel to the road breaks my fall. I grimace as a mixture of melted snow and dirt soaks through my jeans. I don't let it keep me down long. Cursing under my breath, I shake off the pain and slush and make a dash for the woods.

"Amber, wait," Carter shouts through my open window. I want to ignore him, but I can't have him blowing our cover either. I hesitate near a collection of bushes, staying on my toes in case he tries to drag me back to the car.

It's clear he's pissed, but he doesn't follow me. He leans over the middle console so I can hear without him having to shout. "The basement. There's a back door. He never used to lock it."

Sparing a nod to show I understand, I skirt between the trees, keeping an eye on the windows with every step. From what I can tell, there's no one inside, but it is a big estate. Darren could have an entire staff milling about the property and I wouldn't know until it was too late. Thankfully, I don't run into anyone as I round the side of the house and creep into the backyard.

Where the front architecture is all brick, the back is nothing but glass. Just like Brynn's dollhouse, I can see through to most of the rooms in the basement, as well as some on the first floor. Darren's office is one of them, and I'm relieved to find his desk chair empty. Feeling more confident, I sprint across the lawn to the first door I find and hope it's the same one Carter suggested. I hold my breath when I turn the knob, waiting to see if Darren's become more responsible over the years.

But old habits die hard in this case. The door swings open without a sound. I wait for the blare of a house alarm, but it never comes. Not one to take a stroke of luck for granted, I slip into the basement and shut the door behind me.

Something I instantly regret.

The door clicks—

And the basement goes black, minus the glow of the moon outside. A haziness similar to what I felt in Darren's office takes over, and there's no doubt in my mind what this is. I'm having another vision, but unlike last time, I stay calm; I know it's happening for a reason.

I don't have to guess what night this is. The sound of music mixed with muffled conversations trickles down the staircase leading to the first floor, but the basement is eerily quiet. It's not as extravagant as I would've assumed, with the majority of the room taken up by a basic brown couch and a few armchairs. Cardboard boxes clutter most of the corners, suggesting the space may be unfinished.

I rush over to the staircase, but hesitate on the first step. I know I don't have time, but I have to look.

I have to know where Mark died.

My throat closes at the thought of him stumbling down here and into a vacant room, only to eventually be found by Carter. It makes me want to run back out the door, but he has to be the reason for this specific vision. Still, I have to force my legs down the hall that leads under Darren's house. The music fades the further I go, replaced by a horrible silence that makes my skin crawl.

Darkness weighs heavy on my eyes. I feel along the wall in search of a lightswitch, but come up empty. My hand grazes door after door, but I don't stop to check them. Somehow, I know they aren't right. There's something familiar about this hall — a hall of a million doors.

The light flicks on under the one at the end. A buzzing like flies hovering over decay vibrates through the wood. My breath catches the closer I get, letting me know this has to be it. Ignoring the feeling of the walls closing in, I start to approach the door.

"Not yet!" Mark's scream is guttural, desperate, but I keep my pace even, reminding myself that none of this is real. It's not really Mark. His screams grow louder with every passing second until they're shaking the house. It's almost enough to stop me from grabbing the handle — almost.

It feels like ice in my hands, my body freezing at the touch. I can't see him like that, in pain and gasping for life... but I also can't risk choking when the time comes to save him.

I take a ragged breath and count off in my head, mentally bracing myself. Just as I twist the knob, the light flickers. The haze is clearing. I'm slipping away. I burst through the door—

But there's nothing to find.

I squint at the sudden onslaught of light. Like the rest of the rooms, it's lined with windows that illuminate every corner. It's basic, like most guest bedrooms are: a bed, a nightstand, a dresser. Beige walls meet beige carpet, and a generic picture of a meadow hangs on the wall. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it, but I stare at that beige carpet until my eyes are dry. Somewhere on that carpet, Mark lost his life. And if I don't get this right, it'll happen again.

With nothing left to see, I slam the door and rush back the way I came.

I take the stairs two at a time. Reaching the top, I peer through a crack in the door and try to find my bearings. It leads to the same hall Mollie brought me down, and from what I can tell, I'm behind the middle door. If memory serves me right —which I hope it's getting better at — then I have to turn left to get to the office. Chancing one last glance from my hiding spot, I close the door behind me and walk briskly towards the study.

Then, the front door opens.

"I've got a guy who does repairs, you know. I'm sure he wouldn't mind taking a look."

Darren's voice echoes from the foyer behind me. There's no time to run back to the stairs, so I sprint the last few feet to the office door. Just as I'm about to duck in, another voice makes my heart go numb.

"That would be great, actually. Third time this week the damn thing's broken down."

Carter.

While I feel like I could shit myself at any second, he sounds natural and in control. By the sound of their footsteps, they're coming right towards me. Slipping into the office as quietly as possible, I tear across the room and go straight for the desk. It's as pristine as before, making it easy to see there's nothing to uncover. Seconds later, the door opens.

I drop to the floor and crawl under the desk, heart pounding. Their footsteps clack against the hardwood until they reach a spot near the middle of the room. By the sound of their exhales, I assume they've sat down on the couches.

"I'm just glad I remembered you lived around here. Used the last of the truck's life just getting down your driveway."

"Yeah, well let's hope the Uber doesn't run into the same problem," Darren jokes lightly. I imagine the same smile from the other day plastered on his face. "The app says he's two minutes away."

I'm frozen in place, unsure of what to do. They sound pretty settled on the couches, but I can't remember how far away they are. There's no space under the desk, which means they can't see me... but, I also can't see them. Tentatively, I tug at the drawer closest to my head. Figures — it's locked.

"You really don't have to do that, Darren. I'm sure my driver will get my message and call me back."

"Doubt it. The service is shit this far back in the woods. Makes it so hard to get business done at home. Speaking of business, I was actually considering putting this place on the market..."

Taking a chance, I decide to tune them out. As long as Carter keeps him talking, hopefully Darren won't come back here. I test each desk drawer with a soft tug, but they're all the same. Before panic can set in, I observe the locks more closely. To my untrained eye, they seem pretty similar to the one on my front door at home.

My hands fly to my hair for a bobby pin. Back before I was blessed with a house key, they were the difference between sleeping in my bed or the bushes on nights I missed curfew. For once, I'm grateful for my mother's strictness. Slipping one from my bun, I bend it out straight, then slide it into the lock. Adrenaline pounds in my ears as I listen for any sign of them getting up. I jimmy the pin until my hand cramps, but I push through it until I feel the chamber clear. With a final click, the drawer comes loose in my hands.

It's filled with hundreds of files sectioned off by manila tabs. Once I'm sure Carter and Darren didn't hear me, I comb through the papers carefully. Most are filled with words I don't know, and I assume they pertain to work, but my fingers skid to a stop at the word Darren written along one of the dividers. The handwriting is different than the ones before it, the ink slightly faded.

"You know, it's funny seeing you and Amber in the same week but not together."

The sound of my name pulls me back into their conversation. Keeping my thumb on the Darren tab, I listen closer.

"She's always been independent," Carter says in a tone I can't place. "But she did mention coming by here. Something for the school?"

Just a recap of what I already know — back to work. Holding my breath, I slide out the file and leaf through it. I'm convinced I'll know what I'm looking for when I see it. The pages date back to when we were in high school and consists mostly of old transcripts and report cards. Tori wasn't lying; Darren was smart. Nothing but A's flash back at me.

Overall, it seems useless. I move to put it back, but the letterhead of the last document makes me pause. Where all the others held our school's seal, it's missing from this one. I pull it free of the stack and scan it quickly, stopping at the words The Deener Academy bolded across the top. It's followed by Darren's name and the year we were meant to graduate, along with his GPA and final grades.

He mentioned not graduating from Susquehanna, but I never gave it much thought where he went instead. On its own, the information isn't very shocking; if it were a normal report card, I wouldn't spare it a second glance. But instead of math and science, Darren's grades are for classes labeled "reflection" and "group session" — and he got D's in all of them.

"Unfortunately, my party came up in the conversation," Darren says, tapping his foot against the floor.

"Yeah, Amber told me that too. She was pretty upset when she got home."

Tucking the report card into my jacket, I work the zipper up as quietly as possible. I could risk checking another drawer, but there might be a more pressing matter at hand... like, how to get out of this. Based on what Darren said, I only have until the Uber gets here to figure it out.

Whatever that is.

"I'm not surprised," Darren admits. "She didn't seem well when she left. I imagine it's still a hard thing for her to talk about."

"That could be it," Carter agrees, but there's an edge underneath. "But it's probably because you lied to her."

Everything goes still: the trees outside, the air in the room, but especially the beat of my heart. A million different thoughts fly through my head at once, but one outweighs them all: never bring Carter on a stealth mission again.

Darren finally breaks the silence. "What did she say I lied about?"

"She didn't have to say it. I got it from the information she did give me. You told her you never saw Mark at the party, but I remember seeing you come up from the basement when I got there. I imagine he would've been pretty hard to miss."

Another beat passes before Darren answers. "It was my party. I had to check the house to make sure no one was destroying it. You remember how it was that night," shuffling makes me think he's readjusting, or worse, standing up, "Nothing I told her was a lie. I never saw Mark at the party, and I didn't see him before. Whenever he ended up in my basement, it was after I already checked."

Footsteps confirm that Darren's on his feet, but I can't tell where he's going. It isn't until he speaks again that I gauge he's further away.

"I've learned that it's best to just let the past rest, Carter. It's never done me any good dwelling on it. I won't tell you how to handle your own wife, but maybe suggest she does the same. For her own sake."

I literally have to bite my tongue. If he's purposefully trying to sound condescending, he's achieving it perfectly. Temptation wins out as I peak around the desk, keeping my head low. Thankfully, Carter's on the couch facing me, peering up at Darren who's standing right above him. Based on his face, I can tell he wants to deck Darren too.

Instead, all he says is, "I'll relay the message, but I doubt she'll take the advice."

"Well, if she won't take my help, maybe you will. Let me grab the info for that repair guy before you go."

Panic sets in when Darren turns to approach the left side of the desk. Shrinking closer to the right, I grapple with what to do before landing on Carter again. He's the picture of confidence leaning back against the couch, cradling a highball glass filled with amber liquid. I'm right outside his line of vision, but it's my only hope.

Just as Carter takes a sip, I wave my hand frantically.

When our eyes lock, the drink slips down the wrong pipe. He coughs violently, his face beet red, and I scramble back around the desk as Darren walks into view. I can hear him thumping Carter on the back, meaning I'm safe for now.

"Strong stuff will do that to ya," Darren says over the commotion. "Sorry about that, should've warned you. You never were much of a drinker."

"Still not," Carter chokes out. Eventually, his coughs subside and I hear him get to his feet. "Don't worry about the repair guy, I'll get the thing towed tonight. Like you said, some things should stay in the past. I'm starting to think the truck might be one of them."

Darren's laugh is light once again. "You may be right about that. Well, at least let me walk you out. The Uber's arriving now."

Carter follows him without another word. I listen as their footsteps recede down the hall, then count to ten for good measure. Once I'm sure they aren't coming back, I go to close the drawer, but hear something slide along the bottom. Moving the files, my heart stops when I spot a black handle poking from underneath, connected to a sleek, metal barrel. I've never seen a gun in person before, but I didn't think they were this small. Its size doesn't make it any less terrifying.

Slamming the drawer shut, I jump up from the ground and tear through the office, wanting to put as much distance between me and that desk as possible.

The hall is empty when I emerge from the study, but I figure it's still best to go back the way I came. I find the basement door, nearly slip down the stairs in my haste, then don't stop running until I'm back outside. Picking my way through the trail I left earlier, I stumble up to Carter's truck, but he's not here.

A honk pulls my attention further up the driveway to a spot by the main road. I don't recognize the car, but I catch the glint of Carter's wedding ring as he waves his hand out the window. I hug the tree line up the road, then dash to the car.

"What about the truck?" I ask, scuttling into the backseat and slamming the door behind me.

"Like I said, I'll get it towed." He leans over to the driver and gives him short instructions, then turns to me. "Did you find anything?"

"Fuck what I found. Why didn't you tell me you saw Darren near the basement?"

"Because I didn't."

"But you just said—"

"It was a bluff," his mouth quirks up, "but Darren doesn't know that."

I appraise him in both shock and admiration. Being married to me must rub off on Carter, because it was a genius move on his part. Now we know Darren was in the basement at some point during the party, and if I had to guess, he's lying about when.

I'm exhausted and ready to celebrate a successful mission. The driver throws the car into gear and starts the trek up Darren's driveway. I want to relax, but paranoia tickles the back of my neck, making me turn back to the house. The front door is still visible from here, and I can just make out the figure standing against it. Darren waves a hand as we pull away, his face a blank sheet. Somehow, even from the back of the car, I know he's staring directly at me.