Jesse Harmon is tortured by guilt because he survived the hit-and-run accident that killed his brother, Bry. His guilt is compounded when he finds he is attracted to Bry's girlfriend, Chloe. Together Jesse and Chloe try to track down the drunk driver who killed Bry--but discovering the driver's identity leads to other disturbing truths.  "Intriguing."-- Publishers Weekly "Fast paced, suspenseful, magnetic, and meaningful . . . Will provoke much discussion."-- School Library Journal Eve Bunting was the beloved, award-winning author of more than two hundred and fifty books for young people, including the Caldecott Medal-winning Smoky Night. 1 IT WAS SATURDAY the 20th of June at 11:30 P.M. when my brother, Bry, was killed. I’ll never forget that date, not if I live to be an old, old man. Coast Highway, shadowed between its tall pole lights, the car suddenly behind Bry and me as we walked single file in the thick grass at the highway’s edge. The glare of its white beams; the roar as it passed me where I’d dived sideways, belly down; the thud as it hit him. I’ll never forget it. We were on our way home from a party at Wilson Eichler’s house and I’d just met Wilson’s sister, Chloe, the girl Bry liked. I was walking along there behind my brother, thinking about Chloe, about the way she’d looked in that white minidress with her smooth brown arms and long brown legs. I was wishing Bry hadn’t already told me he liked her. I was wishing the Eichlers had moved into the Sapphire Cove house before, last year when I was here in high school instead of this year when I was up at UCLA. I’d never laid eyes on Chloe until tonight, and tonight was too late. Maybe she wasn’t exactly Bry’s girl, but she was the girl Bry liked. That was enough right there to stop my giving her a second thought. So why was I? Cut it out, Jesse. Just cut it out. Those were the things I was thinking. Bry was in front of me. Levi’s and a denim jacket, brown loafers that were almost identical to mine. Bry thinks I know about things like clothes because I’m older. I was smiling to myself at how long and skinny he was, and how loose he walked, when the too-bright car lights lit up the sky ahead of us. I spun around, saw their blank gleam heading right at us, and I yelled to Bry to jump. I was still yelling as I dived deep into the knee-high grass. Still yelling as the car hit him. It tossed him into the air, and in slow motion he smashed down on the hood, the car swerving toward the center line, careening back, Bry sliding off into the middle of the highway. The car stopped. I thought the door opened on the driver’s side. There was some kind of pause while I lay there in the sudden silence, not believing, knowing I was dreaming, dreaming some awful nightmare dream. Then the car leaped forward again. More traffic was coming. I could hear it on the highway, and I thought it would hit Bry, too—go over him like some dead, furry animal squashed on the road. I jumped up and ran screaming to stand in front of where Bry lay so still and quiet, waving my arms, pointing down and waving. There was a shriek of brakes as the car stopped. “Holy cow!” a man’s voice said. “What the . . . ?” His head poked out of the driver’s window but I was kneeling beside Bry now, with his head in my lap, knowing without anybody telling me that he was dead. Other cars came. A bunch of teenagers piled out of one and a woman in a camper pulled over on the beach side of the road and gave me a blanket to put over Bry. I put it across his front, which was covered with a wet darkness, but I didn’t put it over his face. I stroked his hair. Bry has the worst hair. It sticks up in back and I tried to make it lie down. The man from the camper said he was going to a call box, but the lady would stay with me. I think he must have put out flares, or somebody did, because I saw their orange sizzle and smelled their smoky smell. Bry’s head was heavier against me than a head should be, and cars were edging around us now, making the traffic back up, with gawkers leaning out of the windows. A guy was even standing up through his sunroof. I told Bry not to worry about them. One of his legs was bent funny, and it was important to straighten it. But I couldn’t reach. His shoe was gone. Sirens were coming now, high and shrill above the slap-slap of the waves on the beach on the other side of the highway. “We live just down the road,” I told the woman, or I thought I did. “We live in one of the Del Mar trailers, up on the second row. My brother and I were walking on the other side, facing the traffic, and we’d crossed over, because we were almost home. We shouldn’t have crossed over.” I was babbling, jerking the words out. “Sh!” the woman said. “It wasn’t your fault. You were right up on the grass, off the road. That driver must have been drunk as a skunk.” “Just down there,” I said again. “That’s where we live.” Later the police asked me all kinds of questions, mostly about the car. What