“Are you certain? Did the man make you touch him at all?”

Again Ellen shook her head.

“Is there anything you haven’t said that you’re scared about?”

“No. I’m sure.”

Then Sage told her everything was going to be fine, and I felt for a moment like it was. Ellen put her head on Sage’s shoulder.

“There’s no way she can walk home, Libby,” Sage said. “Either you tell Mrs. Boucher when she gets home, or I’ll get Charlotte to come.”

“No. No parents. It will just make everything worse. Give me a minute.”

I called home, and Marie answered right away. “It’s me,” I said.

“Mom just left,” Marie said. “She must’ve gone out to look for her.”

“Ellen’s here.”

“What? Oh thank God.”

“Yeah. But listen, something’s happened. She’s okay, but she won’t be able to walk home.”

“I’ll get someone. Have her ready.”

We’d been waiting less than twenty minutes when headlights started down the driveway toward the house. I panicked. What if it was Mrs. Boucher? How would I explain Sage and Ellen in the house? A car door slammed, but the headlights stayed on and a dark bulk moved toward us. A man. He tapped lightly on the door. I looked out. He was broad. I recognized the dark hair and suede leather-fringe jacket. It was Wilson McVay, with his dad’s Buick. Ellen was ready in Sage’s clothes, and Sage was carrying Ellen’s uniform. I opened the door, and Wilson stood at the threshold, looking at us.

“Well, you must be the Florence Nightingales,” he said.

“Hey, Wilson,” said Sage. She started walking with Ellen to the door.

“Yeah, hi,” I said.

“This is Ellen,” said Sage.

“Hey there, Miss Ellen,” Wilson said, slightly bowing. “Your taxi’s ready.”

Ellen broke a smile. Wilson smelled of leather, cologne, and a hint of alcohol. Ellen and Sage followed him out to the car while I fanned the door in and out to make sure the smell of him was gone before Mrs. Boucher came home.

I watched the taillights disappear through the trees. How had Marie managed to get Wilson, and how had I just let Ellen into his car, after everything that had happened? In the bathroom I cleaned the sink and floor, put the bath mat back, and threw the towels we’d used into the washing machine.

It was close to two, later than usual, when Mrs. Boucher came home. She drove me to the top of my road without saying anything. She seemed tired and preoccupied, driving with the window down while she smoked.

“Are you okay for next Friday?” she asked when I was getting out.

“Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.”