Thomas was eating through a pile of stacked pancakes. His mouth full, he said, “They taste better for having come from the Walkers.”

Marie spoke to the camp director, saying she had misplaced the name of the hotel where our mother was staying. He gave her the forwarding number, and Marie called it and left a message with reception saying it was an emergency and could they ask her to call home. We waited and talked about the night before and all that had happened and might happen, and what exactly we would tell Mom.

When the phone rang, the three of us went silent. Marie picked up, and I instantly knew it wasn’t Mom because of the way Marie spoke, polite and friendly. Both Thomas and I were watching, and Marie looked over at me. “Yes, okay, Mrs. Boucher. Oh, we’re all fine. I’ll tell her. Thank you for letting us know.”

When she’d hung up, I waited for her to say it.

“Mrs. Boucher says she doesn’t need you to babysit next Friday. She sounded a little weird.”

I could feel the heat seeping into my face. Both Marie and Thomas were looking at me.

“What’s going on, Libby? What’s wrong?” Marie knew something was up. “Is it because we’re involved in this that she doesn’t want you near her kids, or something?” She sounded angry.

I shook my head. “It’s not that. It’s something I did.” I told them the story of the car headlights cutting out all those nights, how I’d known for a while that she was seeing someone, and that she wanted it kept secret. I told them all the reasons I suspected it was Grady Adams—him knowing about Ellen, the night he hit the deer.

“How does that mean they’re having an affair?” asked Thomas. “Your story makes no sense. You have no evidence or proof.”

“That’s the worst part. I went and got proof.”

Marie stared at me. “You what?”

“I know.” I could feel the shame all over me. “On Friday night I asked Wilson to drive up and see if there was any car parked along Horseshoe Trail Road. I feel so shit.”

Marie looked disgusted with me. “If Mrs. Boucher and Grady Adams are having an affair, that’s none of your business. Seriously.”

“I know. I know.”

“What did Wilson say?” Thomas asked.

“It was a Mercedes. Just like Grady Adams’s, parked by the Nike site.”

“I’m still confused,” said Thomas. “Why would Mrs. Boucher ask you not to babysit? Did you say something to her?”

“No. I told Sage.”

“Oh shit, Libby.” Marie put her head in her hands.

“I’m sorry.”

“Is that why she wasn’t talking to you at the police station?”