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“I need to talk to you.”

“What?” I snap, barely able to hear her over the music.

“I said I need to talk to you!”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Come on.”

Before I can protest, she drags me out of the gym.

“What the hell, Sienna?” I demand, stumbling after her. “Do you seriously have to manhandle me? What’s gotten into you?”

“Not here. Outside.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and judging by the look on her face, arguing isn’t going to get me anywhere.

I reluctantly follow her down the hallway and through the doors leading outside to the quad.

The cool night air hits my face as we step out onto the school grounds, where a handful of former classmates have gathered to smoke and escape the noise inside.

And standing among them, cigarette in hand, is Peyton.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls when she spots us. “Look what the cat dragged in. Heartless Hartley and our very own little celebrity. What is it, Max? Couldn’t stand not being the center of attention for five fucking minutes?”

“Peyton,” Sienna warns.

“Oh, relax. I’m just making conversation.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette, deliberately blowing the smoke toward me. “Although, I have to admit, I’m surprised you’re still showing your face around here. What with everyone dropping dead since you came back to town.”

I feel my hands curl into fists.

“Funny you should mention that.”

Peyton arches a brow. “Oh?”

“Because I’ve been thinking about that myself. About how people keep dying, and how convenient it is that everyone seems to think I’m responsible.”

“Maybe that’s because you are.”

“Or maybe someone wants them to believe that.”

Her smile falters, but only for a second.

“Careful, Max. People might start thinking you’re losing your mind. Although, considering what happened at the mill, I suppose that wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

“Don’t,” Sienna says sharply.

But Peyton ignores her.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what it must be like to spend your entire life blaming everyone else for your problems. No matter how much time passes, you’re still the same pathetic little girl who couldn’t take a joke.”

“A joke?” I repeat incredulously. “You killed five people, Peyton!”

A few heads turn in our direction.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Peyton seethes.

“Why? Afraid someone might finally hear the truth?”