“I know. But they ask about a challenge you’ve overcome. My life has been, like, mostly challenge free,” I say. I feel Levi laughing, his belly jiggling my head, though this time, I think, he’s laughing at me.

“We should all be so lucky, Chlo.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Now

Kenny arrives wearing an olive cashmere sweater and khaki pants, which I appreciate because it makes it easier for me to pick him out of the lawyer lineup. The bloated and underslept faces of the many middle-aged white men and women who crowd our house have become indistinguishable in their shades of gray. They sit hunched over laptops, fueled by the empty adrenaline of the billable hour.

The PR people are, at least, easier to tell apart. They’re better, more casually dressed. High-waisted pants and fashion sneakers and the tips of tattoos peeking out at the collarbone. Painted nails and fake smiles.

I follow Kenny into my dad’s office. He shuts the door and motions for me to take a seat. My body feels electric with nerves, and I wonder if people can short-circuit. I picture this all ending with me in an institution, catatonic from stress overload, a far cry from the SCC student my parents had so desperately hoped I’d become.

“Okay, so I have bad news and I have slightly less bad news,” Kenny says.

I don’t say anything but I feel myself shrinking, as if I can collect my atoms and tighten them into a ball, out of his reach. Smaller and smaller I go. I want to disappear, become a puff of air to be walked through. Not the same as wanting to die, but not far off either.

How could there be more bad news?

“You got a target letter,” he says, and again I don’t say anything. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, screams will erupt, loud and long and deranged. I don’t cry like my mother does, dainty and clean. I’m all snot and red eyes and I spread my sad around, like germs or loneliness. “Let me explain what this means. It means that you are the target of a criminal probe. It does not, I repeat, it does not mean they will necessarily bring charges against you.”

“But they could,” I say, and it’s not a question. “This is them saying we might.”

“Yes.”

“But I thought they were only targeting people over eighteen? Only legal adults.” I wonder why I thought this. Did I have an official source for this information? From the Signal text group? From Kenny? As usual, I wish I was more like Isla. She’d have taken notes in every meeting with her lawyer, and then typed and color coded them for later reference. Then again, Isla would never have gotten into this mess in the first place.

“We thought they’d draw the line there. It seems they’ve chosen not to.”