We take Lyla’s car.
Hartley and Farrah argue the whole way. Topics include whether or not Farrah was shitting her pants at the hospital last week, if Katy Perry is a bimbo or the ultimate feminist, if So You Think You Can Dance is a crappy reality show or legitimate television, and who’s the biggest idiot of everyone in the car.
We hop onto I-10, which becomes a long-ass bridge across Lake Pontchartrain, and then it’s mile after mile of water that turns into one continuous stretch of swamp and pine forest, all of it sitting still in the breezeless night air, the moon carved into a steel-blue sky. Eventually we leave the highway, and the road narrows and turns to gravel. There are a thousand and one swamps closer to the city than Honey Island, and it makes me wonder: why this one?
At some point we all get sick of talking to one another, and everyone silently taps away at their phones. Except for me. I’m the genius who didn’t bring one. Hartley pulls her phone out of her pocket, and I see a flash of ink on her inner wrist. I squint and lean in closer to see.
“What’s your tattoo of?” I ask.
She twists her arm to show it to me. “It’s an angel. My little brother died when I was ten.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
Hartley smiles sadly, looking at the tattoo. “I wanted a reminder somewhere I could see. I drew it myself, so it’s kind of not the best, but I think it’s special that way.”
“That’s so sweet.” After a beat I add, “What happened to him?”
Hartley’s smile wilts.
“You don’t have to tell us,” Farrah says from the front seat, her voice surprisingly sympathetic.
“No, it’s okay.” Hartley takes a deep breath. “He drowned. He was in the bathtub, and my mom wasn’t paying attention, and he slipped under the water. Paramedics resuscitated him, but he was brain-dead already, so they pulled the plug.”
Jenny pops into my head, and tears prick my eyes. I can’t imagine how I would feel if anything like that happened to my baby sister.
“That’s horrible,” Lyla says.
“Yeah, it is,” Hartley agrees. “He was the sweetest boy. He didn’t deserve the life he got. Between my dad and everything with him, and my mom trying so hard to keep my dad happy, it just wasn’t good. He’s in a better place.”
I instantly feel bad for every uncharitable thought I’ve had about Hartley Jensen. She looks different in this context—her tough exterior a shield against her tough life. I guess you never really know someone’s truth.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat.
She clears her throat. “They knew, you know. Whoever’s behind this game.” She answers my raised eyebrows. “It was my gift. After Six Flags. A headstone, engraved with his name. We couldn’t afford anything when he died, just this placeholder thing. I tried to make it nice with flowers and stuff, but I always wished we could have done better for him. And then two days ago…it was just there.”
“That’s kind of creepy,” Lyla says. “They were watching you.”
But Hartley shakes her head. “I don’t care. He deserved something nice.”
The Society knew this about Hartley—knew her dark, personal family secret that no one else, or at least very few people, knew about. That narrows the pool of suspects down greatly. It seems insensitive to theorize right now, but I can’t be sure Hartley will open up later, and it’s critical.
“Who knew about your brother?” I ask gently. “Anyone at school?”
“No one,” Hartley answers. “I never talk about it, not even with Kaz and Marcus and Dil,” she says, referencing the group of Goths and stoners she hangs out with. “But I did an essay on him last year for English, and Mr. Bowing thought it was so good he asked for my permission to read it to the class. He didn’t say it was my paper or anything, but afterward everyone was trying to find out who wrote it and I never said anything, so I think they figured it out.”
Shit. My shoulders sag.
A car speeds past, kicking up a cloud of dust. No one talks for at least three minutes before Lyla breaks the silence. “Is your mom okay?”
“What?” Hartley meets Lyla’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Your mom. After what happened with your brother. Is she all right?”
Hartley lifts a shoulder. “I guess. I mean, she functions. But we don’t, like, interact a lot or anything. I guess she feels like a fraud, acting like a mom after what happened. Like she lost her right to be a parent or something.” She’s taken out her lighter and is grinding it on and off, sparks flying from her hand.
“That sounds like my mom,” Farrah chimes in unexpectedly.
“Your mom?” Lyla says.