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Gracen sighs. "Okay, 'fraidy- cat. See you tomorrow, after ballet. No cake for you." He picks up a stick, turns his back on Douggy, and drags it along the fence in a show of fearlessness. Douggy ruins everything. They should have been at the bus stop five minutes ago, and he's the one who'll get in trouble if they don't make it.

"Stop!" she yells. He glances back to see her eyes squeezed shut and her hands over her ears. "I'm telling Mom!"

"Good!" He keeps going, thwacking marks into the soft dark wood of each fence slat. Will he be called to the principal's office if he arrives at school without his sister?

No way. Douggy's the one being a pill. She'll go home in tears, and Mom won't have time to do anything but drop her off at school. After the party tomorrow he'll get a talking- to, and that will be that.

Another thud and a strangled yelp end in a clanky jangle. Gracen looks through a crack. The dog hesitates over a tangle of chain topped by a broken leather collar. Free.

Faster than thought, the dog hurls itself against the rotting planks near Gracen. The fence shudders and creaks. The paws and the huge head loom at the top as it scrabbles for purchase, whining and growling. Gracen's frozen, staring at its grizzled muzzle.

"Gracen!" Douggy runs toward him. The last glimpse of his sister before he falls is carved deep: her sweet brown eyes and stubborn chin, her pumping elbows. Her determination to save him.

Then— pain. His skull lights up, and he crumples. There's a weird crunch— his neck?— and sparkly stars fill his vision. The ground slams him, forces the air from his lungs, and he gasps with a sound like a drain. He gropes for understanding— why is he down on the road?— when a snarl snaps him back to alertness.

Douggy shrieks. Gracen squirms to get free, but he's stuck. He can't breathe. He can't move. A man yells: "Down! Stop! No!" Douggy's shrieks fade to whimpers. Gracen tries to yell, "Run!" but only wheezes.

A gunshot cleaves the world.

The ringing silence goes on and on until Gracen whimpers and pushes out from the fallen boards. He gasps like a drowning man. His shirt and the skin of his back are shredded, but he barely notices. Something warm and sticky drips in his eye, and he wipes it away, blinking at Douggy.

The scary guy is kneeling beside her, the German shepherd behind him as still as if it were a stuffed animal. There's red on his sister's face and shirt. Red on the man's hands where they press, trying to keep it in. This can't be real. It's like a movie, the kind he's not allowed to watch. Pretend blood, like a video game.

His stomach twists. When he asks, "Is it bad?" his voice is small and far away. Clear gray eyes meet Gracen's. Same old scraggly beard and hollow cheeks, but this close, the deep lines of his face make him look sad and scared instead of crazy. His voice is calm, but he doesn't answer Gracen's question.

"Nine- one- one, boy," he says. "Phone's inside the door. Haul ass."

Gracen hauls ass and answers his own question. Over and over he'll answer it, through the coming decades. It's bad now, and it only gets worse.


"Gracen Ridpath of Gracen's Hot Mess here. Yeah, that funny guy who does stupid food tricks and dropped sixty -five pounds on Oreos and orange juice alone. (Remember, kids— don't try this at home, especially if there's no one else to clean up the vomit.) If you've ever wondered what caused the mental dumpster fire behind my quirky exterior, check out my new limited series vodcast where I open up about a family tragedy. Maybe it'll help someone to hear it, and maybe I need to share. The Ridpath Girl...on your favorite podcast platforms."

—trailer for The Ridpath Girl, present day


CHAPTER ONE
QUINN

In the predawn darkness, Quinn sits cross- egged on the bare twin -sized mattress that serves as their bed, sleeping bag draped around narrow shoulders. Quinn's eyes are closed as they replay the last lines of the podcast episode yet again, despite knowing them by heart: "Douggy wasn't the happy child we wanted to think she was, and her death was no accident."

For Quinn, it's like picking a scab. An infected scab.

With a twitch, Quinn taps to stop Gracen Ridpath's rumination on his dysfunctional parents, his scarred little sister, and the dual tragedies that reduced his once-happy family to a husk. Gracen's little sister had been Quinn's best friend. The podcast takes the only time in Quinn's life when they experienced unconditional acceptance and poisons it. Douggy was a joyful, fierce, loyal friend, and she didn't kill herself. No fucking way.

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