"I need you to tell me what happened. Everything. As much as you can remember."

The woman, Detective Brennan, sat in front of me, her caramel brown hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. Her dark blazer was unbuttoned, giving me an unobstructed view of her badge—and her gun.

The latter made me swallow hard, and my palms were sweaty with panic. I wiped them on my borrowed sweatpants hastily, hoping the detective didn't notice.

A clock on one of the slate-gray walls had been stuck at thirteen past eight since the moment they'd brought me in here.

"Selene," Brennan said, her voice soft, yet insistent. "This is important."

I rubbed my eyes, which ached with the migraine pulsing behind them.

"Selene, I need to know what happened last night."

"And I keep telling you, I don't know." My answer was genuine. I could remember before the bonfire. But beyond the first few drinks, the actual event itself was a blank slate in my mind.

From those drinks until I'd woken up in the woods was a span of darkness.

Detective Brennan sighed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. A watch glittered at her wrist, but from my seat, I couldn't read the time. "Selene, we have to know what happened," she prodded. "Start from the beginning."

I pressed my fingers against my temples, digging into the sensitive pressure points. Last night was murky and trying to remember felt like sifting through dirty water. The more I dug beyond the surface, the more mud and gunk clouded everything.

"My stepfather made me volunteer at a church charity event," I said. "He said that afterward, I could go to the bonfire with my friends, but I'd have to take Oliver with me."

"And Oliver is your step-brother, correct?"

I nodded.

"And when did the event end?" Brennan had pulled out a notepad and was marking on it quickly with her pen. Her handwriting was hurried, rushed, as if she couldn't write them fast enough.

"Around five, I think. I went back home to change. Hanna came to pick Oliver and I up."

"Your friend, Hanna Ridge, correct?" Detective Brennan was observing me, as if trying to determine if I was lying. I supposed it was her job, but her constant eyes on me made me feel uneasy. I cast my eyes toward the table, where my hands sat.

They were now free of blood, but I could remember the feeling too vividly. The skin around my fingers was raw and bleeding from where I'd nervously picked at the skin.

I nodded in response to her question.

"We arrived at the bonfire a little before dark," I continued quickly.

The stench of flame and smoke still hung heavy on my skin, even hours after the fact. My temples pounded with an echo of my heart, sending aching waves of pain crashing through me.

But I pushed through the pain because Detective Brennan was staring at me, her eyes hyper focused. Whatever the reason she was questioning me, she made me feel uneasy. Her eyes demanded answers.

"You, Hanna, and Oliver?" Brennan asked, her voice neutral. But I could see the curiosity burning in her eyes. She was determined to pull every single detail out of me. But there was so much I didn't know.

"Yes. Oliver stayed in the car because he didn't want to be there. But Vincent had insisted I take him. Hanna and I followed the crowd to the clearing. Jordan, Hanna's boyfriend, met us along the way."

I paused, trying to remember. "We found some friends and hung out with them. Jordan went to get drinks. We took some shots of tequila. I had a few sips of a beer."

I could remember the burn of the alcohol and the feeling of elation at being free for the evening. We'd all clinked our glasses together in celebration. We'd been happy and carefree.

"And what happened next?"

"I don't know." I remembered our second shot, but then there was nothing. Just a blank slate where my memories should be. "Everything is black until I woke up in the woods, a few minutes before your officers found me."

Detective Brennan pulled a photo out of her manilla folder. She slid it across the table. "Do you remember this girl?"

The photo was of a girl, pretty and blonde. The sight of her made me feel heartbroken.

She was the girl who had been hanging on the arm of Mason, my crush, last night. I remembered the feeling of disappointment when I'd seen them together. My heart had sunk into my chest, and Hanna had given me a sympathetic look before dragging me off to get drunk.

"I recognize her, but I don't know her. I saw her last night."

Brennan didn't reply, just slid the photo back into the folder without a word. She looked me over, as if studying me. She tapped her fingers against the table as if she were deep in thought.

"And then what happened?" She prodded me to continue. But I couldn't.

"I don't know. I can't remember anything after that. It's all just blank."

For the first time, Detective Brennan frowned. "I don't think you understand how much trouble you're in here, Selene."

"Trouble?" I asked. But my thoughts strayed to the blood that had covered my hands. At the body I'd thought the police had surrounded in the woods. I chewed the inside of my cheek as nerves flooded my system.

"Yes, trouble," Detective Brennan said. "Two people are dead."

She stood, seemingly agitated. I swallowed hard against the rush of bile that rose in my throat. Who was dead?

"Who is dead?" I barely heard my voice as I spoke, voice shaking. Whose blood was on my hands? The girl in the photo? The one who'd hung onto Mason's arm, who had kissed him without a care in the world?

"This is serious, Selene. Two teenagers are dead. And we found you, alone in the woods, blood on your hands."

"Who is dead?" I repeated, louder this time.

Detective Brennan reached for a manila folder that had sat in front of her the entire time. She flipped it open and pulled out an image. She sat it in front of me, her eyes focused on mine. "See for yourself."

A blonde girl, her hair fanned around her in a halo of blonde. Leaves and twigs were tangled in the strands. Her blue eyes were lifeless and empty, staring up at the camera. Blood soaked her yellow bikini top and wounds were streaked across the tanned skin of her stomach.

My stomach roiled and I shoved the photo away as I swallowed the vomit that threatened to rise.

"Her name is Samantha Harris," Detective Brennan told me. "And you killed her."

My stomach roiled, and I shoved the photo away in favor of the second.

"I didn't kill her!" I gasped out, horrified. How could someone think I'd done that to a person?

Detective Brennan said nothing as she took the photo of Samantha away in favor of another. I was wary as I pulled it closer to examine it.

The boy was barely recognizable under the burns that marred his flesh. Half of his body had been charred and ruined, leaving half a face and a familiar space-themed T-shirt. Oliver. His mouth was opened in a silent scream, as if the flames were still devouring him whole.

"Tell me why you killed them."

I didn't answer her. My mind was focused on the image of Oliver, staring up at me in pain.

He hadn't even wanted to leave the car. I thought he'd stay there the whole night. But he'd joined the bonfire crowd at some point. And now he was dead. Anxiety made my gut churn, and I picked at a piece of loose skin on my thumb.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. A voice in the back of my head whispered and I shivered.

"Why would you show me those?" I asked Detective Brennan, horrified. I pushed the photos back toward her, no longer wanting to see the gruesome images portrayed on the pages.

She slid the folder back toward me, pointing at the girl, forcing my eyes to take in her corpse.

"Samantha Harris and your stepbrother, Oliver, were both killed last night. And we found you, covered in blood. We're waiting on the blood analysis from your clothing. But we know it's most likely Samantha's. Now we just want to know why."

"Why what?" I asked breathlessly, unable to tear my eyes from Samantha's corpse. She stared at me, her blue eyes lifeless. Oliver's photo was the hardest to look at. The marred remains of his face seemed to stare straight into my soul. I'd been angry that I'd had to drag Oliver along with me. He hadn't even wanted to go. And now he was dead.

Your fault, the voice in my head whispered again.

If Detective Brennan thought I'd killed them, why hadn't they arrested me? I'd seen enough murder shows to know they did have to let me know I was under arrest.

"Why did you kill them? How did you kill them?" Detective Brennan's question brought me out of my thoughts.

For a second, I was speechless. "I didn't kill anyone! I could never!" I thought about the blood that had coated me and shivered. Where had it come from?

"We found you in the woods, covered in blood, not even a quarter-mile from the bodies of Samantha and Oliver."

What happened last night?