Chapter 12: Her Own Phone

I did not decide to do it.

My hand did it for me.

Brock was lifting the iPad off the table, and I was already out of the booth, and then the case was in my fingers.

"Hey!" he said.

I ran.

I ran past the waitress with her coffee pot and through the glass door, and the cold hit my face.

The parking lot was wet and dark, with one yellow light at the far end.

Behind me, the diner door banged open.

"Lindahl!" Brock shouted. "Give it back!"

I had a long, ridiculous half minute of knowing exactly what I looked like.

A girl in a cardigan, hugging a hockey iPad, running across a parking lot toward a freighter.

I ducked behind a pickup truck and dragged my thumb across the screen.

It asked for a passcode.

"Of course," I whispered.

I tried 0000.

I tried 1234.

I tried the date of the first game of the year, because Coach was a creature of habit, and the screen shivered and opened.

"Oh, Coach," I said. "You beautiful fool."

I opened the messages.

The photo was there, in a gray bubble at the top, and under it was a line of small text.

"Sent to: Kenzie R. 8:51 PM."

Eight fifty-one.

Twenty minutes ago, while we were eating pancakes.

My stomach sank.

I deleted the photo anyway.

I deleted the thread.

The backup, and the cloud copy, because I wasn't going to leave one pixel of myself on a hockey team's equipment.

Then I held the iPad to my chest and sat on the curb of a diner parking lot and breathed.

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