It's brutal.

Dragging the details of the CPS visit out of Ronnie takes nearly an hour with little to show for it. If anything, I'm more confused now than when he started. As fucked up as my memory is, I would remember Mark being taken away, which makes me think Ronnie could be crossing some wires. After his claim about Carter, it's more of a hope.

I rub a hand over my face to help fight off exhaustion.

"Your dad," I start, but my throat is too dry. I'm tempted to ask for water, but I swallow past it, not wanting to break his concentration. "Did he come so they wouldn't take you?"

"Yes."

"And Mark never told me." I don't pose it as a question. I've come to learn that's pretty on brand for Mark. "How old were you when this happened?"

He doesn't blink, his eyes still on the window. "Nine."

"But didn't you say Carter called them?"

"Yes."

"That can't be right, Ronnie." I push away from the chair, anxiety yanking me to my feet. "You have to be remembering something wrong. Carter would've been barely twelve. Shit, he probably didn't know what CPS was back then, much less how to call them. It's just not something a kid would—"

The sentence dies in my throat. I realize it's not Ronnie who's remembering wrong; it's me. At twelve, Carter wouldn't have known to call CPS about Mark's home life. A kid wouldn't think of that.

But a parent would.

"You know why they stopped being friends."

"Worse. I was part of the reason."

Julia's face by the fire flashes back to me. There was no denying the guilt in her eyes that night, but without context, I couldn't understand why. After Ronnie's recount, now I know. She made the call that almost destroyed a family, the call that ultimately guaranteed it years later. This is what broke Carter and Mark apart.

This is the falling out.

The whole room spins. My stomach curls in on itself until it's nothing more than a pit. Staggering over to the window, I claw at the sill, desperate to pry it open. I'm too hot, and if I don't get fresh air soon, I'm afraid I may actually vomit.

When I catch a glimpse of the parking lot, I almost do.

It's cleared out more since we first got here, with only a few cars still left. Though it started out a gloomy day, the sun's come from behind the clouds, making each of them gleam in the light. Not a single one is red.

"Shit," I whisper, my breath fogging up the glass. I wipe at it desperately, but the truck is still missing. "Shit."

I turn to find Ronnie still staring, but now I can see the focus in his gaze. It's locked on one spot in particular at the far end of the lot — the spot where Carter was previously parked.

"Where'd he go, Ronnie?" I fly over to his chair, stopping just short of falling into his lap. "You were looking at Carter, right? How long has he been gone? Did you see which way he went?"

Ronnie flinches away from me, his eyes dropping to the floor. "I don't know."

"It doesn't have to be exact," I push. "Make a guess. Five minutes? Ten?"

"I- I can't," Ronnie's cheeks turn red. "I can't."

He's visibly shaking now, and I know I've gone too far. Shame mixes in with my growing hysteria, and I have to will myself to calm down. I give him his space, leaning back to rest against the wall below the windowsill. Taking deep breaths, I rationalize all the reasons Carter's truck isn't here. He could be grabbing food. He could be getting gas.

Tell Ronnie I'm sorry.

He could be leaving me behind.

My hands fly to my pockets, searching desperately for my phone. I haven't used it much since finding it in the drawer, and I'm momentarily terrified that I left the house without it. Thankfully, I spot it in my chair and lunge, grabbing it with trembling fingers.

"What happened, Ronnie," I blurt out, splitting my focus between him and the phone. "What made Carter call CPS? You said something about the night before Moira came. Do you remember what happened then?"

I catch him shaking his head in my peripheral. In my haste to unlock the phone, my fingerprint won't register on the touch ID. When it denies me for a third time, I nearly throw it against the clunking kitchenette.

"You have to Ronnie," I urge. Attempt four does the trick, and I scroll through the apps helplessly, trying to recall the crash course lesson Carter gave me. "Think really, really hard for me, alright?"

He just shakes his head harder.

I finally find the call icon, then scan the contact list for Carter's name. It's like staring at a blank screen; I retain nothing from the jumbled text, my adrenaline making it impossible to concentrate.

"Can something go right for once?! Just once?" I shout at the phone, then spin wildly on him. "You have to remember, Ronnie. I know you do. It's really important that you tell me what happened, okay?"

"I'm not allowed," he mumbles, and it's the final straw.

"Why?" I explode, clenching the phone so hard I'm afraid it'll break. My finger slips across the screen.

Ronnie physically recoils, but still whispers, "I'm not allowed to tell anyone. Mark said so."

All I can do is stare, chest heaving.

Then — the music starts.

"Shawty had them Apple Bottom jeans (jeans!),

Boots with the fur (with the fur!),

The whole club was lookin' at her."

I blink. Hard.

It's a jarring juxtaposition to the atmosphere in the apartment. For a second, I'm expecting another vision, but I can tell Ronnie hears it too. That being said, he doesn't seem at all surprised. If anything, he relaxes into the song.

"What is that?" My head whips around to the kitchenette. Sitting on the counter, plugged into the wall, is a cell phone, its subscreen lit up with an incoming call.

"H-his phone," Ronnie says without looking.

The song plays on a loop as the call goes unanswered, but I'm rooted in place. I recognize the old technology, the phone devoid of a touch screen. There's a dent in the flip down part, along with harsh scratches that run across the paint. No matter how many times he dropped the thing, it refused to break.

Ten years later, it still works fine.

I glance down at my own screen, unsurprised to see Mark's name. Even knowing he won't pick up, I've found myself calling him over the last few days. I don't let it call long; it never gets past the third ring. I haven't felt ready to hear his voice, not when it may be the only way I'll ever hear it again.

Flo Rida gets cut short as the voicemail picks up, and my thumb hovers over the screen. But when I tap it, instead of ending the call, I switch it over to speaker.

"Hey this is Mark. You know what to do when that phone go-" Beep.

I linger a moment before hanging up. Neither of us say anything. I lift my gaze and find Ronnie fixated on my phone, his face sunken. His back is a little straighter than before, and he's on the edge of his seat with anticipation — like he's waiting for Mark to say more.

"You have his phone." I croak past the lump forming in my throat. "After all these years?"

When the phone stays quiet, Ronnie sinks lower in his chair, sparing me only a nod.

"How?" Never once did I question where the phone was, or how I was still able to call it. I assumed the police took it as evidence, but even then it would've died by now.

Ronnie sniffs sharply. "He left it at home. That morning."

Dazed, I walk over to the counter and slip the cell from its charger. It's small in my hands but feels like it weighs a ton. Years of voicemails are stored in this thing, all left without the intention of ever being heard. It makes me wonder if Ronnie listens to them. If he's been listening to me all this time.

"Why haven't you ever answered it?" I ask softly, glancing over at him again.

"I'm not allowed to." He sniffs again, but it's not enough to catch the tear that leaks its way through. "I like when it rings. Maybe he'll come answer it someday."

Guilt comes on in a wave, crashing over me until I'm drowning in it. In my haste to get answers, I've spent the last hour making Ronnie relive the most traumatic moments of his childhood, followed up by the worst day of his life. A day he can actually remember.

"I'm so sorry, Ronnie," I say through my own tears. They threaten to take over until I'm a blubbering mess, but I wipe at them harshly. "This was wrong. I shouldn't have done this to you."

It's time to leave. I've done more than enough damage, and there's still Carter to worry about. I fumble with the cord to plug the phone in as quickly as possible.

"You can have it." It's the first unprompted thing Ronnie's said since I got here.

I falter. "What?"

"You can have it." His eyes don't waiver from my hands. "I know Mark isn't coming."

I'm torn. My first instinct is to refuse. This is possibly the only thing he has left of his brother, and it's clearly something he cherishes. But then I remember why I came to begin with. What this visit is all about. I can't ask Ronnie about Mark now, not after all this. The phone could be the only concrete information on Mark's whereabouts that day. Horrible as I feel, taking it may be my only chance of ensuring he lives to answer it again.

"Only for a little while," I say finally, slipping the phone in my pocket. "Mark would want you to have it, so I'll bring it back. I'll come see you again, okay?"

With the phone out of sight, Ronnie surprises me by meeting my eye.

"Promise?"

I bite my lip to stop it from trembling. Reminding myself that I'm going to fix this, I force a watery smile. "I promise, Ronnie."

I promise I'll save him.

Tucking my own phone away, I head back down the hall. I'm nearly through the door before I remember.

"Carter's sorry too, Ronnie. He wanted you to know."

I'm not sure if I say it for Carter or Ronnie's sake. Maybe a little of both. Regardless, it's not a question, and it seems Ronnie's done talking. He stares after me from his chair, the same vacant look returning to his eyes.

It haunts me long after I slam the door and bolt back down the stairs.

"Where is he."

I was on my fifth call to Carter when I spotted a familiar SUV pull into the parking lot. Originally I felt relieved, but that was short lived; when I ripped the back door open, he was nowhere to be found. Unlucky for Charlie, that means he gets to deal with my anger instead.

Carter's voicemail picks up as I slam into the car, and this time, I don't hold back. I send my phone flying across the seat, hitting the opposite door with an audible crack.

Charlie eyes me cautiously. "If he's smart, hidin' from you."

"So not the time, Charlie," I snap, throwing myself back against the seat.

He holds his hands up in surrender, then turns his attention back to the car, throwing it into drive. "Sorry, fair enough. I don't know where Carter is."

I avert my eyes from the building as we pass it, suppressing the urge to search for Ronnie's window. Instead, I keep them locked on Charlie's face to catch any signs of dishonesty. I don't think he would lie to me, but I'm not sure who I can trust at this point.

"Assuming he's how you knew to come get me, did he bother mentioning his location when he called?"

"Nope, but I sure wish he had. It'd save me from the death glare you're givin' me now."

"Of course he didn't." I reach down and snatch my phone from the floor, grimacing at the damage. The whole screen is shattered, with glass sticking up from all angles. "Was there anything he did feel inclined to share?"

"All he told me was where you were and where to take you. I figured you knew I was comin'. The only thing I got for you is the address."

On a whim, I pull Mark's old phone out. Thankfully, I made it a priority to memorize Carter's new number over the last few days. Wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder, I lean across the center console to check Charlie's GPS. I don't know the address by heart, but I recognize the zip code from back home. Wherever Charlie's taking me, it's somewhere I know.

"Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. Carter Hayes, is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."

A slew of curse words sits on the tip of my tongue, waiting for the beep.

"The mailbox is full and not accepting any new messages. Goodbye."

I chuck the phone into the front seat and leave it there for the rest of the ride.

It takes longer than this morning. What was only a three hour drive has now stretched into five. Charlie doesn't ask any further questions as we crawl along midday traffic, but I catch him glancing back at me more than once through the mirror. I do nothing to reassure him I'm fine. Fine is the last thing I'm feeling right now.

The panic has dulled some now that I'm with Charlie, but my mind is still a jumbled mess. Thoughts of Ronnie threaten to overwhelm me, and the only other thing I can focus on is Carter — which, isn't much better. Though sending Charlie is a sign he didn't forget about me altogether, I'm hurt that he put me through this at all. He had to know Ronnie might mention the falling out, yet he sent me in totally blind anyway. I keep reminding myself that I don't have all the details, that Ronnie could still be wrong, but I can't help but do what I've always done — assume the worst.

I sit a little straighter when Charlie pulls off the highway and heads downtown. My eyes glide over the street numbers, heart jumping any time we slow down. It isn't until he turns onto a certain road that I realize where we're going. Charlie pulls into the school entrance, then cuts through the senior lot until we're parked near the soccer field. I find the path easily, even with the thick underbrush that's collected over the years. It briefly makes me wonder when I was here last. If I had to make a guess, not since Mark died.

Charlie searches our surroundings, then checks the GPS. "I think I might've passed the front or somethin'. Hang on, let me just —"

"No no, it's here." I scramble out of the car, but hesitate when I go to shut the door. Remembering how the ride started, I eye him sheepishly. "Thank you, Charlie. And I'm sorry I was such an ass earlier, you're the last person who deserves it."

"Got a feelin' I know who you think does deserve it," he says good heartedly, no signs of hard feelings in his demeanor. "Now don't go worryin' about me when you clearly got enough goin' on. I'm a driver in New York. I got tough skin."

I manage a soft smile. He asks if he should stick around, but I tell him to go home for the night, pointing out Carter's truck close by. Giving me a final nod, he waits until I shut my door before maneuvering his way back towards the main road.

Once he's out of sight, I head down the path to the log. It's a walk I've done every day for years, but I feel totally lost. My steps are unsure and I trip more than once, plus the lack of light isn't helping any. It's nearly dusk, just light enough to cast shadows through the trees.

It isn't until the weeds start to clear out that I spot the first candle, its flame bobbing in the spring breeze. Another follows it, then another, creating an aisle that leads back to the main clearing. They end near a blanket situated at the base of the log, with pillows propped up against it. And just next to it, his back to me, is Carter.

I've caught him mid-set up. I watch as he messes with a torch, trying and failing to light one of the candles. Needless to say, I'm totally thrown for a loop. This is the last thing I expected or prepared for, so I just go with the first thing that pops into my head.

"You're gonna set the school on fire."

"Amber." Carter whips around, snuffing out his candle in the process. He glances down at the others around us, wincing when a strong wind blows the flames towards the surrounding shrubbery. "I, uh, didn't plan on the wind."

"And abandoning me without warning? Was that part of the plan?"

He shoots me a nervous smile. "I guess I was aiming for a surprise."

"Yeah, well it fucking sucked."

It's blunt, but there's no anger behind it. Somewhere during the five hour drive, I realized I don't want to fight with him again. I don't have it in me. At this point, all I want is everything laid out on the table so I know the truth. What happens after that, I'll take one step at a time.

"I'm gonna have to agree with you there. Not one of my best ideas." He drops the remaining candles in defeat, but doesn't look up at me again. "How was Ronnie?"

I sigh, pulling my jacket tighter around my body. It's warmer than it's been all week, but I find myself shivering as another breeze rustles the trees.

"He told me about the CPS call. The one your mom made." I don't bother beating around the bush.

He doesn't flinch. "Yeah, I thought he might."

"It was awful, Carter. Ronnie was awful. His whole family is destroyed, and you couldn't bother telling me why before I went and played twenty questions with him. Why would you do that to me?"

Any signs of a smile slides off Carter's face, leaving an expression similar to this morning. Shuffling around the candles, he wanders over to the blanket.

"Sit with me."

I don't move. "Carter, I'm exhausted, can't you just tell me at home?"

"Sit with me," he holds a hand out, "I'm gonna tell you everything, but I'd like to do it here. If that's okay."

I'm tempted to put my foot down and say no. It'd be well within reason after the shit he pulled today. But like I said, I'm exhausted. I'm not in the mood to be stubborn — maybe just petty. Walking past his outstretched hand, I settle against the pillows, then lean my head on the log. Its familiar smell calms me just a bit. There's more moss than before, plus overgrown weeds that tickle my skin, but it's still the same log I know and love.

My eyes follow Carter as he joins me, making sure to keep a considerable distance between us. Right away, I pick up on his nervous energy, which doesn't reassure me. He plays around with his own pillows, fluffing them until they sit just right. With nothing else left to do, he clears his throat.

"I don't want you to think I was purposefully keeping this from you, because I wasn't. Before everything with Brynn and the phone, I was going to tell you last night. Before that, there just never seemed to be a right time."

"Any time would've been right, Carter," I butt in. "Why would Tanner calling about Ronnie change anything? You still could've told me."

"I could've. Based on how today went, I should've." He studies my face, and even though he's looking right at me, his mind seems to be somewhere else. "But we had a conversation years ago, about Mark and how everything came out. One consistent thing you said was you wished it were him. That Mark had been the one to tell you what he went through. So when Tanner said he found Ronnie... I guess I thought he'd be the next best thing."

"He didn't tell me everything." I force myself to relive the conversation with Ronnie, remembering the look in his eye when he told his side of the story. "Just what happened when CPS came the next day. Mark told him he wasn't allowed to say the rest."

Carter doesn't seem surprised. "Sounds like Mark."

I wait to see if he'll say more, but he's stalling. He's had hours to work this out in his head, yet he's still holding back from me. I try not to take it as a bad sign.

He rubs a hand across his jaw, then laughs harshly. "Shit, you'd think this would be easier the second time around."

"So why isn't it?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"I don't know. Maybe because I can still remember the first time and all the regrets surrounding it. It was forced out when Mark died, and it almost tore us apart from each other. When you woke up last week with no memory of anything, I knew we would have to do this again. I just wanted it to be different. I wanted the opportunity to get it right.

"But then, everything with Darren started. You were so fixed on uncovering the truth about ten years ago that I didn't know how to bring up what happened years before that. But you're right. Any time would've been right, so I'm choosing now. Whether I'm ready or not."

He's genuinely scared. I can tell by the way he fidgets with the blanket, brushing loose dirt off the edges. Reaching over, I take his hand and squeeze until he meets my eyes.

"I'm listening, Carter. I can't speak to how I reacted last time, all I can do is promise I'm open now. No matter what happened, we can get through it. Clearly we did the first time."

Carter returns the pressure, the slightest smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. We did."

He falls quiet again, rubbing his thumb slowly across my hand. It's like he doesn't know where to start. Finally, he takes a ragged breath. "Do you remember the trip my family went on the summer before sixth grade?"

The question takes me by surprise, but I nod. "To the Galapagos. Right when you stopped talking to me and Mark."

"To you, yes. But I saw Mark after the trip. He was my first stop the day we got back."

I frown, failing to see how any of this is related. I'm about to call him out for changing the subject, but then I take in his face. He stares at me, gaze heavy, waiting for it all to click. When it does, my heart drops into my stomach.

"Where did you see him?" I'm asking, but I already know.

Carter confirms it for me anyway.

"His house."