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“You’re nothing to me, Peyton. You’re not my sister. You’re not my family. You’re not even someone I consider a friend. You’re just a person my father brought into my life when he married your mother. The second I leave that house, you won’t even be that.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in.

“So go ahead. Celebrate what you’ve done to Max. Enjoy thinking you’ve won. Because this is the last time you’ll ever get to hurt either of us.”

“Milo, you can’t mean that,” she whispers.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

He looks at her with such complete indifference that, for the first time since I’ve known him, I see something resembling genuine fear in Peyton’s eyes.

“You can spend the rest of your life hating Max.” His voice drops, somehow becoming even colder. “You can tell yourself whatever you want about why I never chose you. But the truth is, even if Max had never existed, I still wouldn’t have wanted you.”

He lets the silence stretch.

“You were never an option, Peyton. And you never will be.”

The words settle over the hallway like a death sentence.

No more threats. No more arguments. Not even a backward glance as we walk away.

Peyton’s reign of terror ends here.

Chapter 37

Saturday

I take one last look at myself in the mirror and draw a deep breath, trying to summon whatever courage I have left.

Tonight is the reunion party up at the high school, the last place I want to be.

Unfortunately, now that half of Fairhope seems convinced I’m some kind of serial killer, I figure it’s better to show my face than risk someone else dropping dead while I’m sitting alone in my room without a decent alibi.

God forbid someone else bites the dust, and I’m not standing in a room full of witnesses to vouch my innocence.

At least one good thing has come out of this whole mess—I finally finished the first draft of Dead Girls Don’t Lie and sent it off to Lauren. The entire manuscript. Every last chapter. Which means I no longer have a professional excuse to stay in Fairhope.

Not that I’m entirely sure I want to.

There’s still Milo.

Just thinking about him makes my heart ache, although these days, that familiar feeling of longing comes with something else. Something I never imagined I’d associate with the only man I’ve ever loved.

Fear.

Not because I’m afraid of him. God, no. But because I’m terrified the suspicion that’s been gnawing at me since last night’s vigil might actually turn out to be true.

Could Milo really be behind all of this? Could he be the one killing off the Reds, one by one?

I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel about the possibility that the man I love might be responsible for all these murders.

We didn’t see each other last night, which only made things worse. I spent half the night staring at my phone, waiting for a call or a message that never came, and the other half trying to convince myself that I was being ridiculous.

I’m hoping he’ll be at the dance tonight. I’ll finally have a chance to talk to him, to look him in the eye and ask him outright if he had anything to do with what’s been happening.

I need to hear him say no.

All I need is for him to say that one little word, and I’ll believe him.