I had been to only two funerals in the eighteen years of my existence. The first one was for my grandfather, who had passed from cancer. It wasn't a difficult experience, and I mean that in the most sensitive way possible. It was just expected. My family and I had been preparing for months, saying our goodbyes and spending as much time with him as possible. We just knew.

Colton's was number two. What made it ten times harder was the fact that I hadn't known he was going to die. Nobody had. This made the pain strike stronger than the last time I had lost someone. The knot in my stomach tightened into a suffocating squeeze, the desperation for closure shredding my insides to ribbons. It kept getting worse, the feeling intensifying, slowly making me feel like I might implode at any sudden movement.

Then a shoulder blade nudged into mine and for a fraction of a second, it gave me a physical sensation—no more pain than a pinch, but pulling me from my thoughts to focus on my current surroundings. The guy who had bumped me smiled sheepishly, apologized, and joined a group of people engaging in a solemn conversation.

It was only then that I thought, Who are these people?

I had known many of them almost all of my life: classmates, family, friends, important members of the community. But in that moment, they were complete strangers. Who were the people that were crying into tissues and exchanging a damp Kleenex or two? Who were the people that were visiting with Colton's family and mumbling generic things like deepest sympathies and sincerest apologies? Who were the people engrossed in deep conversations, mentioning Colton's name as if he were a brother to them?

It made my blood boil. It made my fists clench. It made my jaw tighten and triggered something hungry and wild and powerful: anger.

"I can't believe he's gone," said Lydia, Colton's girlfriend, joining me by one of the pews. "Who could have done this to him? It's all over the news . . ."

"I don't know."

She brushed a piece of strawberry blond hair away from her face and dabbed under her eyes. "I—I think I'm going crazy. I keep hearing his voice, hallucinating that he's here. It's like he's trying to communicate to me from beyond the grave."

"Doubt it." I kept my voice monotone.

"Maybe I just need counseling," she whispered while staring off into the distance.

"Maybe."

"You're doing that thing again," Lydia said, craning her neck to look at me with her big green eyes.

My teeth clenched, a tick pulsing in my jaw. "What?"

"That thing where you answer in one-word sentences," she said. "I need someone to talk to, Elliot. Please. This is hard for me."

Her words buried their way under my skin, latching on and cutting the single thread of control I had left. I turned to her. My anger had transformed into rage, a wild and hungry fire that burned within me. This is hard for me. Had she ever considered that it was hard for me too? Equally, if not more? I was the one who'd found his body. I was the one who'd found him dead. Lydia had hardly spoken to me after Colton disappeared, and now she wanted to have a huge heart-to-heart about his passing?

"Hard for you? It's a tragedy for you. It's traumatizing for me. I still have nightmares about finding his body in the lake. You can't complain to me that it's hard for you."

Lydia's heartbroken face made me instantly feel guilty for my outburst. The three of us used to hang out all the time. At first, it had felt like I was constantly intruding on their relationship. But Colton and Lydia were not only the best duo, they were also great individually. They were my best friends.

Lydia deserved an apology, a sincere one. I couldn't give her that. Not then. So I stood up, brushed past her, and made my way to the exit. The suffocating sensation of being locked in a room full of grief and melancholy was finally set free as I inhaled the warm spring air.

With shaking hands, I ran my fingers through my hair and looked up at the blinding sun until spots appeared. Then I closed my eyes, and the splotches of light danced behind my eyelids. I tried counting them to distract myself. I wasn't sure how long I had been standing there, but it wasn't nearly long enough, when I was interrupted.

"Elliot?"

Cass. The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she made her way over. "It's almost time for your eulogy."

The noise that came out was a grunt crossed with a sigh.

"It won't take long," she insisted, giving my shoulder a comforting squeeze. "You're doing well."

Once we were back inside, Cass disappeared. The sea of faces blurred as I continued down the strip of carpet that divided the room. We were all there for the same reason, but I had never felt so isolated.

The desire to blame fired up within me again and a series of questions flooded into my mind. What was wrong with the universe? Why did Colton have to die? Why couldn't I have taken the walk a day earlier? I could have spotted him sooner, saved him faster. Maybe I could even have prevented his death.

As soon as I stood up at the lectern, a rush of nausea swept over me and beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. I clutched the sides of the stand, allowing my nails to dig into the wood and my knuckles to turn white. Licking my dry lips, I took in the audience sitting there in front of me, their faces wearing a mixture of expressions as they waited for me to make my speech.

I forced down the dry lump that was forming in my throat and the room swung—or perhaps I did—as I reached into my jacket pocket and searched for my index cards. There was a button, some- thing that felt like an old piece of gum, a coin, and finally my written speech. But when I pulled it out, it was a single piece of paper and not my small collection of notes. Someone coughed from the back of the room, which caused my panicked self to open the paper and place it on the stand. So that was it: a spontaneous moment. But when I smoothed the folded wrinkles of the page, it showed a messy scrawl that was not my own.

If you found this letter, it means that my job was successfully completed: Colton Crest is nothing but a memory, a lifeless body, a shell . . .

Quickly stuffing the piece of paper back into my pocket, I saw the crowd of people blur until they were distorted shapes. My heart raced, stomach clenched, palms dripped. Someone called my name. Asked if I was okay. I wasn't sure. I couldn't concentrate on the voice.

I took a step away from the podium, trying to control my shallow breaths. The microphone only emphasized my suffocation. With a heaving chest, I tried clearing my throat to apologize, to excuse myself, but the words couldn't find their way out.

I had to get out of there. So, without another breath, I bolted.

‡

Twenty minutes later, I was finally alone. My dad had followed me out of the church, calling my name, but I ignored him as I got into my car and drove. I had to get out of there.

When I finally found a quiet road, I pulled over and picked up the letter. My thumb ran over the lined piece of paper, feeling the indents of the writer's script. I was having an internal battle about whether I should read the whole thing or not. A part of me wanted to just throw it out, to forget, because I knew that whatever was written would destroy me. But a bigger part of me begged to read it, to soak in every word and let it consume me.

A dollar coin sat near the console, reflecting light from the sun, causing its golden exterior to shine. I leaned over and picked it up, letting it slide between my fingers. One side had an image of the queen; the other held a cluster of kangaroos.

Heads, I throw the paper out. Tails, I read the rest of it.

I balanced the dollar on my thumb and flicked it into the air, watching as it spun back down to my palm. Slapping the coin onto the back of my other hand, I took a deep breath.

"Tails," I muttered, staring at the animals printed on the coin.

I tossed the dollar back to where I had gotten it and unfolded the piece of paper. Although my insides were squeezing, and my conscience was begging me to stop, I didn't.

I read.

If you found this letter, it means that my job was successfully completed: Colton Crest is nothing but a memory, a lifeless body, a shell. I'd like to say that killing him was hard, but really, it was the opposite. It seemed almost too easy. You could have saved him. But you didn't. I'll let that sink in.

One thing you should know is that I knew Colton better than you did. You have to be able to recognize weaknesses and target them. I bet you don't know any of his weaknesses. I mean, he was the golden boy of Hampton High, wasn't he? It was expected that he wouldn't have any evident flaws. But trust me, if you had gotten to know Colton the way I did, you'd know that he had plenty.

I'm the only one who has all the answers. I know where he went when he mysteriously disappeared. I know what happened. I know why. But giving out all that information wouldn't be any fun. Let's play a game. I have written six more letters and hidden them in six different locations. Each letter contains a confession. By the time you read the last letter, you'll know who I am. Scavenger hunt, anyone?

Take your time, though. I have nothing but time.

I'll even be attending his funeral. I'm the person you were least expecting.

Now before I finish up and let you tear yourself apart trying to figure out this mystery, I'll leave you with the first confession: I killed Colton Crest.