The Box in the Woods (Truly Devious #4)(71)

was on it wasn’t dirt—it was something more inky and permanent. The shirt was ruined.

This seemed like a bad omen, a dark mark. A message. Her focus was shot. David was gone. The summer split apart like a wet paper bag.

“Stevie.”

Stevie blinked and looked up.

“I got some weird shit on my shirt,” she explained.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” he said. “I have nothing to do up here now, which is great. You’ve abandoned your post. Let’s get out of here and go to town.”

“For what?”

“For something to do. There’s a diner, right? Let’s go there.”

She was about to refuse, but when Nate looked annoyed, it truly startled her. His pale brows furrowed into a point.

“Fine,” she said.

She pushed off the floor. As she did so, she snuck a glance at her texts.

Nothing. Not that that surprised her. Her phone had been sitting by her head the whole time and had never made a peep.

She and Nate got bikes out of the rack, took their locks and keys, and headed down the path, out of Sunny Pines and back onto the now-familiar stretch of tree-lined road. This activity shook off the top layer of her malaise, which was unfortunate, because that layer had been keeping the other,





more painful layers in soft focus. David had probably just driven off down this road. Or maybe he would drive by now. She should stop and call him. Or not. Maybe when she got to town. Call him before he got too far away, onto the highway, out of Massachusetts, out of her life, forever.

England. He was going to England?

Why was her life over when she was only seventeen? She’d peaked. It was done.

Also, screw him. Screw him for sneaking up on her with this information when she was trying to figure out what had happened to Allison Abbott. He could have told her about this on any one of their phone calls. He’d had so many chances.

Also, also? Free college? Poor little rich boy. She had no idea how her family was going to afford college. She would have to get so many loans that she would be in debt until she died. Oh, so you’re sad about your dad? Here’s free everything.

She pumped the bike harder, working all her feelings out on the road, riding more on the driving lane than the side. Go ahead and hit her from behind. She dared them. Nate was struggling to keep up with her, occasionally yelling something about the fact that she was “riding in the middle of the fucking road” or whatever. The pedaling stopped the thinking, and the road belonged to her now. Let them try to take it.

They arrived in Barlow Corners in record time, Nate red-faced and looking regretful that he had ever had this idea in the first place. Stevie, though, was mildly renewed. At least, she was hungry. It was a start. They locked their bikes by the





library, near Sabrina’s reading room.

“Jesus,” Nate said as they crossed the street to the Dairy Duchess. “Never again. Next time I leave you there.”

It was only when they crossed the street and Stevie saw the red, white, and blue bunting that was on some of the storefronts that she remembered that it was the Fourth of July. There would be fireworks tonight. She checked her phone and found, to her surprise, that it was almost six o’clock. If she had guessed before, she would have thought it was maybe two, three at the latest. Somehow, she had lost almost an entire day in misery. No wonder Nate had finally peeled her off the floor.

The Dairy Duchess was an old-fashioned diner, the kind you saw on TV, that never seemed to exist in real life. There was a long counter with red stools, and Formica tables. It was also air-conditioned, which was a sweet, freezing relief. The place was basically empty when Nate and Stevie came in, so they took the prime booth by the window, looking out on the street and the town green across the way. The top of John Barlow’s hat peered above the menu that was tucked behind the ketchup bottles.

They both decided on some milk shakes and burgers, because Nate and Stevie had similar views on nutrition. To Stevie’s surprise, Nate got out his laptop and immediately starting typing.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Nothing.”





“Are you writing?”


“I’m just . . . I’m doing something.”

“You’re writing, aren’t you?”

“Solve,” he said. “Solve.”

“I can’t solve.”

“Okay, then sit there. At least you’re not on the floor anymore. I’ve done my job.”

This was a bit of a betrayal.

She opened her backpack and put her things on the table. Her tablet. Her phone. A notebook. Everything she knew about this case—aside from whatever was floating around in her head—was here. All the tools she needed. Now there was time and space to think.

She looked at the items.

She looked at the ketchup.

She looked at the menu and John Barlow’s hat.

She looked at the library.

She felt herself beginning to see.

Allison Abbot was dead. Allison Abbott had been murdered, and almost certainly because of something to do with this case. She hadn’t just fallen off that cliff. It didn’t matter how she, Stevie, felt. Allison Abbott was not alive anymore, and someone had to do something. She had promised Allison she would get the diary—and then Allison died.