The pizza delivery car is gone. I debate—if I go inside the restaurant, I’ll have to wait tables. I look at the meatball truck and there’s no question—I can’t be seen in that tonight, lurking around. I call Trey’s cell.

“What’s up?” he says.

“Where are you?”

“On the way back. You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, fine—just needed some air. Can I do deliveries?”

He’s quiet for a second, and I know he’s trying to figure out why I’m asking. “Is this, like, your ‘getting back on the horse’ moment?” He’s not joking. I almost got robbed—and who knows what else—last time I delivered. And even though it was a really weird situation and crime is normally not that bad here, I haven’t wanted to do deliveries since then.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Okay,” he says. I can tell he’s not sure.

“I’ll be fine. It was just a fluke. I need to do this to prepare for the Super Bowl tomorrow, ’cause I’m helping you. I just decided.”

He hesitates. “Just make sure you do what I told you if anything happens.”

“I will, I promise.” I smile. He told me to kick ’em in the meatballs. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” he says. “Now, go check the next order and make sure it’s a good neighborhood—I’m pulling into the alley now.”

“Got it.” I hang up and go into the restaurant. I see the delivery bag on the warming shelf by the door, check the address to make sure I know where it is, and without anybody noticing me, I grab it and meet Trey at the car.

He gives me a weird look. “Is it in a good neighborhood?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, showing him the ticket. “I’ll be safe.” I look him in the eye so he knows I’m not lying. “I have my phone and my keys.” I show him how I stick the keys between my fingers so I can punch and gore somebody’s eyes out. “And my meatball kicker,” I add, wiggling my boot. I am seriously prepared.

He seems satisfied. “And Mom and Dad are good with this?”

I open my mouth to say yes, but I can’t lie to him, so I just close it again.

He shakes his head at me and sighs. “Just go. Pizza’s getting cold.”

“Thank you.” I hop in the car as he turns to go inside.

“If anything happens to you, they’ll blame me,” he calls out. “Do you really want that guilt hanging over you?”

I smile a little so he knows I heard him and close the door, drive down the alley. My mind is not on getting robbed. I head straight to Angotti’s and pull down the side street, into the back parking lot.

When I stop the car and take a good, long look at the building in front of me, I don’t need the sketch in my pocket to confirm it.

This building is going to explode.

Eleven

But when? And what am I supposed to do, wander around telling people to stay away from Angotti’s because it’s gonna blow?

I point my headlights at the building, and with the aid of the streetlights and building lamps, plus the light coming through the restaurant windows, I stare at it, thinking about the scene I’ve watched dozens of times.

There’s the evergreen-and-white-striped awning, solidly attached above the back entrance. The windows above, definitely an apartment—probably where Sawyer and his parents live, just like our family. There’s a glow up there, maybe from night-lights or a hallway light left on while they work the wedding reception.

I look into the wide restaurant window and see happy people at the tables, but all I can think about is the truck crashing into them and the glass flying. I see Sawyer walk past like a blur, but I know that walk, that flip of his head, that easy, tossed-off smile that charms all the teachers. Not me—only the crooked, real smile charms me. I think about it, think about him, and my stomach quakes so hard that an aftershock runs down my thighs.

I swallow hard. “Don’t die,” I whisper. But I don’t know how to save him.

In my head I check off everything that’s supposed to be in this picture. The only things I don’t see are the light fixtures hanging down over the window tables. But they probably had to hook them up to the ceiling to change the seating arrangement for the special event. And I realize that probably means it won’t happen tonight, at least. A shuddering sigh escapes my throat, and I realize I’ve been so tensed up, I barely have a neck anymore. I drop my shoulders and take a breath, trying to shake it off.

I glance at the pizza next to me, knowing I’ve got to get it delivered before the customer calls to complain—that would make Trey freak out. I take one last look at the building. Even faded, the black words painted on the side are clear without the veil of snow: “Angotti’s Trattoria, est. 1934.” A year before ours. They’ve always been a step ahead of us, and we’ve been chasing them ever since.

I look for one last glimpse of Sawyer, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and then drive out of the parking lot to deliver this pizza. Luckily, the roads are good and I hit almost all the lights green. I call Trey and get his voice mail. “I’m on the way back. No problems.”

Biggest lie of the century.

• • •

In the middle of the night the vision runs through my dreams. I startle and sit straight up in bed, wide awake, with one thought on my mind. Snow. “Oh my God,” I say. “Don’t be so stupid, Jules.” In the scene, it’s snowing.