“What do you mean, it stays?”

I flutter my fingers in the air, mocking a magician’s assistant. “It stays in my head. All the random facts and knowledge, they never go away. Weird, right?”

RAZOR

WEIRD? THAT’S THE coolest thing I’ve heard. It also explains a ton about Breanna Miller. “You have a photographic memory.”

She shakes her head too fast, and because she’s drunk, she needs to stop or she’ll get dizzy again. “Not even close. I suck at math. Like, suck. As in the moment a number is brought up, it’s like I’m surrounded by darkness. And I don’t remember everything, but I have this crazy ability to remember facts. Really weird, random facts. Like, by the time I was three, I knew the state capitals.”

By the time I was three, I could recite the Reign of Terror creed. “All of them?”

“All of them.” She curls her fingers in and out like a fighter pointing out someone in the ring. “Bring it. Ask me for the capital of any state. This freak show carny ride is officially open for business.”

My finger taps against my leg. I’m curious, but I don’t like how she’s putting herself down. Breanna releases this sly smile. “Is the big, bad biker scared to play along?”

No one teases me, yet I’m captivated by her courage. “Fine. What’s the capital of Indiana?”

“Psh, everyone knows that. Indianapolis. Another one. A harder one.”

I search for a capital I know that I don’t think anyone else does. “Rhode Island.”

She claps her hands. “The boy knows how to play! Now, Rhode Island is the smallest US state in land area, but did you know it ranks number two in population density per square mile? That means there are a lot of people in each others’ space. Oh, and the capital is Providence.”

Damn. It’s like watching reverse Jeopardy. “That’s cool.”

Breanna runs her fingers through her black hair, then fists her hand at the ends. “If only everybody thought that way.”

The conversation I had with Chevy cues up. Middle School. Marc Dasher. The one time Breanna Miller attempted to show the world this trick. That year must have been hell for her.

“Random facts aren’t the only thing you’re good at, are they? You solved the brainteaser in English.” Her cute, kissable mouth gapes and I forge ahead. “I was sitting behind you.”

Breanna nibbles on the inside of her lip and studies me like she’s questioning the past few minutes between us. “No one knows this part about me. Not even Addison and Reagan.”

“I won’t tell. Any promise I make is set in stone.”

“You could be lying,” she says.

“Could. But why?”

“Good point.” She picks nonexistent lint off her dress. “Puzzles and brainteasers...that is like crack cocaine to me. It’s another weird part of my screwed-up mind. The moment I see a puzzle or a riddle, I start dissecting it, then reconstruct everything so it makes sense. It can be annoying sometimes. My mind tries to find logic in the illogical. Sometimes life chooses to be random.”

“Why didn’t you turn in the brainteaser?” I ask.

She ducks her head to avoid my eyes. “It’s easier to not be seen.”

I like looking at Breanna and I sure as hell like listening to her, too. If the pricks inside that bar or at school can’t appreciate what she has to offer, I do. “Hewitt made you feel bad.”

Her silence is confirmation.

“I don’t know you,” I say, “and you don’t know me, but I do have a good read on when people are full of shit and Hewitt and guys like him are a mobile home septic tank.”

That gains her undivided attention. “Am I full of crap?”

“Shit,” I repeat. She blushes like I told a dirty joke, and I can’t help but grin with her. “Letting whatever Hewitt said get to you—that’s full of shit. You standing out here letting their words make you feel bad—that’s full of shit. Not turning in the answer for the bonus points—that was definitely full of shit.”

Watching her dance with her friends and seeing her throw her head back and laugh—that wasn’t full of shit. Listening to her explain how her mind works—that wasn’t full of shit, either. “The Breanna Miller who danced and figured out the code wouldn’t listen to some asshole guy.”

“You don’t get it,” she says. “You don’t care what anyone thinks. You walk around in your scary cut, and if you don’t like what people say, you throw a punch or have a million bigger, badder biker guys who will throw a punch for you. I can’t throw a punch, and besides Addison and Reagan, I don’t have a million people behind me. I have less than one year left in this hellhole and then I can leave town and become anyone I want to be. In a year, I don’t have to be Breanna Miller. Not number five in the line of nine and not the standby joke for boys at school.”

“I do get it.” More than she thinks. I’m the one who’s overheard the town gossip about how my mom died and why. Breanna goes to argue, but I cut her off. I’m not interested in discussing Mom, especially after what happened with the board. “I do get it. End of story.”

She flinches, interpreting my words as a reprimand. Not my intention, but the conversation had to end. I need you to help me figure out if my mom killed herself or if she was murdered, but I don’t know how to ask. “I’m your bodyguard, right?”

Breanna dramatically inclines her head and strands of her hair fall into her face. “Beyond words being used as knives, the only terrifying part of this town is the Reign of Terror. So are you saying you’re going to protect me from you?”