“Ugh, cauliflower cheese for dinner again,” Taylor complains. “I’m going to be farting all night.”

“You and everyone else,” I say glumly. “The dining hall was already getting a bit smelly.”

“Sunday nights are just the worst for dinner here,” Taylor says. “I can’t believe we have to eat something called spotted dick!”

“It’s called spotted because of the raisins in it,” I explain, following her up the staircase.

“Yeah, but why is it dick?” Taylor’s nipping up the stairs faster than me. I don’t know how she can move that fast with a bellyful of cauliflower cheese and steamed pudding.

“No idea. But dick isn’t a rude word in England.”

We turn into the corridor and enter Taylor’s room. She flops onto the floor; I collapse on the bed.

“I’m so full,” she says, holding her stomach. “I feel sick.”

“Me too.” I pause. “Um. Sorry about that.”

“Sorry about wha—Oh, Scarlett!”

Taylor jumps up and starts fanning the air furiously.

“I’m really sorry,” I mumble. “This always happens to me with cauliflower. And brussels sprouts. Sorry. I’ll open a window.”

“Jesus. Ewwwww.”

“Sorry. Really sorry. I’ll go out in the corridor next time.”

“You better.” She giggles. “Wow, you are so lucky you didn’t have cauliflower cheese before you went on your date with Jase. Can you imagine sitting in the movie theater and farting up a storm?”

I can feel the blood draining from my face at this appalling scenario.

“Oh my God,” I say. “I couldn’t have gone.”

“No, you couldn’t!” Taylor is rolling on the floor, she’s laughing so hard. “Can you imagine?” She puts on a fake English accent. “  ‘Oh, my darling Jase, how exciting to finally be alone with you’—squit—‘Yes, Scarlett, I too have dreamed of this moment, my love’—squit—‘Kiss me, Jase! Hold me tight in your strong manly arms’—squit!”

I’m actually pretty impressed with Taylor’s ability to parody romance novels, but I can’t show it, because I’m too busy grabbing a pillow and attacking her. Amazingly, she barely defends herself, because she’s laughing so hard. I’m laughing too, of course, but Taylor’s in absolute hysterics. So I have the advantage—which normally I never do, because she’s as strong as an ox. I batter her with the pillow as she howls:

“  ‘My darling, what is that terrible smell? It’s like a sewer exploded in the cinema’—squit!”

“Taylor! Scarlett!” someone yells behind us.

I turn to look over my shoulder. It’s Lizzie. She looks frantic. Before I can ask her what the emergency is, however, she wrinkles up her nose.

“Ew, what is that stink?” she asks. “It smells like drains. Do you have a blocked-up loo or something?”

“Squit! Squit!” Taylor sobs with laughter. “Squit!”

I put the pillow over her face and sit on it.

“No!” Taylor yells from beneath the pillow. “Not your butt! Get that thing off me, it’s a deadly weapon!”

She shoves me off with one powerful shift of her shoulders.

“Oh dear,” I say feebly, my giggles fading as I tip off her, feeling a familiar sensation in my lower body. “Um  .  .  .”

“Oh no. Scarlett!” Taylor wails. “Not again! Lizzie, do you have air freshener or anything like that?”

“I’ve got some scented candles.”

“Get them,” Taylor says. “Get them now!” And when Lizzie hasn’t moved, Taylor bellows like a sergeant major: “Go! Go!”

Lizzie dashes out the door like a terrified dog.

“I’m really sor—” I start again.

“Save it, Fart Girl,” Taylor snaps. “You better hope those candles are strong enough. Or you’re sitting in the corridor for the rest of the evening.”

“You have to see this!” Lizzie nearly cries in excitement, beckoning us to cluster round her laptop. She’s been dying to show us what’s on the screen, but Taylor wouldn’t let her until she’d lit the candles and put them on the windowsill. They’re burning nicely, and I must admit, they do seem to be doing a good job of covering my toxic emissions. Ugh.

We’re watching YouTube. Above the black screen are the words Dieting’s for Poor People. Lizzie clicks on the Play button and the clip starts.

It’s Plum.

My heart sinks. I was so enjoying this evening, horsing around being stupid with Taylor, memories of my lovely after noon with Jase filling my mind. For a few hours, I’ve been like a normal girl: laughing with my best friend, being teased about a guy I might be starting to date. Since I snapped my laptop shut, it’s been the nicest time I can remember for ages.

And now, I’m watching Plum, and it’s plunged me straight back into the world of St. Tabby’s, Dan McAndrew’s death, and everything I managed to avoid thinking about this afternoon.

I let out my breath in a long sigh of regret.

Plum’s sprawled on a big sofa, a smug smile on her face. The quality of the film is really bad (I assume it was taken on a mobile phone) and the sound isn’t great either, but I can clearly see Plum’s face as she sits up straight, flicks back her long mane of chestnut hair, and holds it behind her head with one hand at the nape of her neck. With the other, she reaches out for something on the glass table in front of her, and the camera tilts to capture it. She’s holding what looks like a pencil—no, it’s a straw, a short straw. She puts it to her nose. She leans over the table till she’s hanging over it. And then there’s a sniffing sound and she’s sort of scraping the straw against the glass surface of the table.

“Can you believe it?” Lizzie breathes.

Plum puts the straw down, sits back up, and tilts her head back, wiping under her nose and sniffing again. Then she reaches for a pack of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it.

“God, that’s good,” she drawls. “Coke and ciggies. Best diet in the world.”

Someone off-camera makes a comment, and Plum laughs.

“God, no. Dieting’s for poor people!” she says.

And, because that’s the perfect end line, the screen goes black.

We gawp at each other in shock. I lean forward to check the name of the YouTube user who put up the clip, but it’s just a jumble of letters and numbers, designed to make it impossible to guess the poster’s identity.

“Three different girls sent me the link in the last five minutes,” Lizzie says, her voice much higher than normal.

Evidently Lizzie’s connection with Plum’s circle is getting stronger, which is definitely worrisome. She’s kind of like a ticking time bomb that way.

“Who put it up?” I ask her.

She shakes her head, her face blank. I believe her. She’d be blurting it out if she knew.

“Never a dull moment with this Plum, right?” Taylor says.

My phone buzzes, and I jump. A text just came in for me. I’m so focused on what we just saw on Lizzie’s laptop that I immediately think it’s from someone at St. Tabby’s, telling me about the clip of Plum. My heart leaps, hoping that it’s Luce or Alison, my two best friends from St. Tabby’s, who are still, as far as I know, furious with me because I dumped them to go to that fateful party of Nadia’s, where I kissed Dan and he died. If Luce or Alison have decided to get in touch, that would be amazing. I grab for the phone.

But it’s a number I don’t recognize. I click on it.

HEY UVE GOT MY NO NOW. SO USE IT! C U @ THE WEEKEND.—JB

Wow. How could I possibly have forgotten that Jase was going to text me? I was sitting all through dinner on tenterhooks, waiting for my phone to buzz.

My face must be glowing with happiness. Taylor looks at me and guesses immediately who the text is from. She raises her eyes to the ceiling soulfully and puts both hands over her heart, miming it beating fast.

Lizzie doesn’t notice anything: she’s too involved in the drama of Plum being seen online doing drugs and laughing about it.

“She’s in such trouble!” Lizzie says, breathing heavily in excitement. “Ooh!”

She grabs for her phone, which is loudly tinkling out a pop tune.

“I know!” she cries. “Yes, I know! Unbelievable! She’s in such trouble!  .  .  . Yes, I know!”

Taylor and I roll our eyes at each other. This will go on all night.

“Ooh, I’ve got another call coming in  .  .  . hang on  .  .  . ,” Lizzie babbles. “Yes, I know .  .  .  Unbelievable! .  .  .  Yes, everyone must have seen it by now.  .  .  .”

“I’m going back to Aunt Gwen’s,” I say, standing up.

“You want to read his text three hundred million times and then spend hours deciding what to write back,” Taylor says with killer accuracy.

“No, I don’t,” I say unconvincingly.

“Liar,” Taylor says amiably. She jerks her head at Lizzie. “You can’t leave her here. I’m not having her sitting in my room all night going ‘Yes, I know!’ and ‘Unbelievable!’  ”

“Your English accent is getting really good,” I say grudgingly. “Lizzie  .  .  .” She’s so absorbed in her conversation that she doesn’t hear me. I pick up her laptop, close it, and give it to her, jerking my head at the door. She takes it and follows me out, still gabbling away enthusiastically. I can hear her all down the corridor, even though I’m heading in the opposite direction.

I scurry down the stairs, in a hurry to get back to Aunt Gwen’s (I never call it home, because it isn’t). Taylor wasn’t completely right. I do want to read Jase’s text over and over again—though maybe not three hundred million times—and then agonize about what to text him back.

But as I walk back, I realize just how much that video of Plum has really screwed me up. I can’t stop thinking about Dan now, in that obsessive way that I used to do when I collected all the articles on his death and stashed them someplace safe where no one else could touch them (except for bloody Taylor, that is). I’m having this uncontrollable urge to rifle through the stack of newspapers and magazines again, although I haven’t done that in a while. My gut is telling me that I’ll find something there, but I don’t know why. I must be going crazy.

I unlock the front door and creep in. There’s a light on in the living room: Aunt Gwen must be watching the telly. But even if she were out, I wouldn’t go in and curl up on the sofa. It’s so much Aunt Gwen’s place that I don’t feel at home anywhere but in my room.

I go upstairs, my emotions such a mix at this point after the day I’ve had. I keep hearing Nadia’s ridiculing voice, calling me clueless, mocking me because I didn’t know Callum and Dan were close. Which makes me think all the more that I’ll discover a link between them somewhere in my twisted assortment of articles. I rummage through my desk, remove a panel in the back of one of the drawers (my new hiding place, thanks to Taylor), grab my folder, and rifle through the articles one by one. I’m grinding my teeth so that I can stop my heart from pounding. Every time I see the bits about me (“16-year-old minor who cannot be identified for legal reasons”) my pulse races. In the middle of the stack, I come to Dan’s obituary. It’s a bit wrinkled so I flatten it out with my hand. I read each word carefully. It’s as though I’m looking at this with new eyes and no memories.

When I get to the last sentence, I stare at it, my limbs totally numb. My clenched jaw falls open and my heart pounds ferociously. Because my miraculous hunch has really paid off.

“Daniel McAndrew is survived by his parents, of Castle Airlie, Ayrshire; a sister, Catriona, 21; and a brother, Callum, 17.”

Callum and Dan were brothers.

I drop the folder onto my desk, my head spinning like the wheels on Jase’s motorbike. I have no idea what to do. For a second, I think about trying to meet up with Lucy Raleigh, but dismiss the idea almost immediately. How far would that get me? Even if I used Lizzie or Nadia to get to her, Lucy probably isn’t stupid enough to reveal any motive she or, God forbid, Callum, might have for killing Dan.

I’m having trouble breathing, so I go into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. I’ve never actually done this before, but people do it on TV all the time. It’s even more of a shock than I was expecting. The sudden chill of the water calms me down and brings me a moment of clarity. And, staring at myself as the water drips down my face, an idea begins to form in my mind of what my next step could be.

I reach for a towel and dry my face, the idea getting clearer and clearer, like adjusting a camera lens to bring an object into focus. But the better I see it, the more frighteningly extreme it is. What if it works, and I have to deal with the consequences?

I’ll just try the first step, I think. Just the first step. Then I’ll decide later, once I’m through, if I feel brave enough to go ahead and finish what I’ve started.

I walk back into my bedroom, sit down at my desk, and take a few sheets of the former stationery that my grand—I mean, Lady Wakefield—had printed for me when I turned sixteen.

Dear Mrs. McAndrew, I write, my fingers quivering as I scribble in my best cursive.

I hope you don’t think it’s too weird strange that I’m writing to you, but I thought it was best to let some time pass before I got in touch. I really wanted to talk to you at the inquest, but you were so upset, I thought it might upset you even more.

I really hope this letter doesn’t upset you too much, either. But I felt that I ought to be writing it because Dan said something to me before he died and it was about you and your family. I would like to tell you all what he said. Also, I have something that belonged to him that I would like to give back to you. If I could meet you and your family and do that, it would be great amazing really nice

I sit for ages, staring at the heavy vellum paper. This is proving really hard to write. All these lies. And even though I tell myself that, by finding out how Dan died, I’m doing what his parents would surely want, what happens if it turns out that the truth of his death is something they would much rather never have known?

I shiver.

really kind of you to let me. I am having a very hard time with what happened, as you must be too. I do feel that maybe by meeting up with you and your family Dan’s brother and sister, and talking about it, we would all feel better afterward, even if it’s weird difficult.

My phone number, address, and e-mail are below. Please get in touch with me when you can. I could come up to where you live if that’s easiest. I hope you will say yes.

Best wishes Very sincerely,

Scarlett Wakefield

I stare at the black ink for a while, thinking about what this means. I’m angling for an invitation to meet the McAndrews—the family of the boy who died in my arms. I remember Mr. and Mrs. McAndrew at the inquest, though I could hardly look at them, it was so upsetting. Mrs. McAndrew cried all the time, and Mr. McAndrew might have been carved from a single piece of granite. Am I really considering sitting down with them face to face and talking with them? Even if it’s the one chance I have of getting close to Callum and Lucy?

I read the letter over. I don’t think it expresses everything as well as I would want to, but it’ll have to do. God, I think that was the hardest thing I ever had to write, harder even than the Tacitus essay last week, which strained my brain so much I thought blood was going to spurt from both my ears.

I’m trying very hard not to think about the fact that, if this comes off and I find out that Callum is in any way involved, through his girlfriend Lucy even, that would be horrendous news for the McAndrews. I know that might be a possibility, awful though it would be. But not for a moment does it make me think I should stop here, while I still can, with the knowledge that I have no responsibility for Dan’s death apart from having accidentally eaten the wrong thing and kissing him afterward.

I can’t stop, though. I have to keep going. I have to find out the truth even if it burns me and everyone else involved with it.

Dan died in my arms. I’ll do whatever I can to find out how that happened. I owe that to him.

And maybe when I find out the truth, I’ll stop having nightmares.