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don’t actually want to know the answer to that question.”
    “Fair enough,” I say, relieved to not have to lie to her. Paige still doesn’t know about Jackson. I don’t know how to tell her, but the conversation is unavoidable. I have to tell her about it, and I have to break up with Mike. Now.
    It’s not the first time I’ve tried, but this time I’m going to have to stand my ground. And when I do, Paige will have to know why. I resolve to find Mike tonight, to talk to him as soon as the service is over.
    “Oh hey, where’s your earring?” she asks.
    I reach to my earlobes and feel a diamond on the right but nothing on the left side. Crap. It’s probably in the recording studio. Hopefully Jackson will spot it and take it with him when he goes.
    Paige raises her eyebrows and grins. “Maybe you can get Mike to retrace your steps.”
    “Paiger, we should talk. Want to get a coffee tomorrow or something?”
    “Okay,” she says warily. “What’s going on?”
    But then Pastor Pete cuts the music and the chaperones are shouting to the crowd that the midnight worship service is about to begin. The kids from the gym shuffle inside to take their seats.
    “Later,” I say to Paige. “Tomorrow, when we can be alone.”  
    “Okay, whatever,” she looks concerned but doesn’t press it further.
    I take my place on stage behind a mic, and Paige sits down at the piano.
    “Let me hear it if you’re fired up for Christ tonight!” Pastor Pete says.

CHAPTER NINE

    “I NSIDE . N OW ,” P ASTOR P ETE shouts. He holds open a door to one of the prayer rooms, and we all run in. I swallow the tears down my throat, my sadness replaced by fear.
    The room is off the main sanctuary, one of many places where people who need prayer during a service can go for more one-on-one attention from one of the members of our Prayer Ministry. The room is simple—no windows, a small table, and four chairs. And now us. Me, Pastor Pete, Chuck, Amy, Beth, a boy named Brian who’s in Brothers In Christ, and another boy named Sam who I don’t know very well.
    “Guys, help me get this table against the wall,” Pastor Pete says. They rip the chairs away and tilt the table on its side across the door, then pile the chairs against the table to make a barricade. The church has an “active shooter” emergency plan that everyone in a position of authority has to be trained on. I’m pretty sure Pastor Pete is following protocol here.
    “Okay, okay,” Pastor Pete says, clearly nervous. He runs a hand through his hair. “I need everyone to line up against that wall.” He’s pointing to the same wall the door is on. “It’ll give us the best chance if anyone comes in.”
    Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.
    Jackson. Did he have enough time to go? What if he’s still here? I pull out my phone to text him:  
    Hide! Shooter in the church.
    But I don’t get a response before Pastor Pete sees me typing.
    “Emma. Call the police,” Pastor Pete says, as he pulls out his own and dials. “Tell them we have an active shooter situation.”
    “Yes, sir,” I say.
    “Everyone else who has phones turn them to silent right now and stay quiet.”
    They all obey.
    Beth and Amy huddle together, crying. How could they not be thinking of Columbine? Of the Aurora theater shootings? Of the shooting at a local high school just before Christmas break? All stuff that happened here. Are we the next tragedy on Colorado’s list?
    As my phone rings for the police, I can hear Pastor Pete on his phone, warning someone downstairs to secure the kids in the Youth Center. Then he switches off the lights, and everything goes dark.
    “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
    I can’t believe the words as they come out of my mouth. “Hello, I’m at Summit Christian Fellowship on Westlake Road in Denver? We have an active shooter in the building.”
    As I’m telling them everything—where we are, where the others are, what we saw, what we heard—my phone buzzes