“Eh, Raj’ll understand. You know he’s pretty much the only person who reached out to check on me. With everyone else, it’s been like total radio silence. I’ve barely even spoken to Aunt Candy, since she acted all shocked and insisted, ‘We did things the legit way for Philo.’ Which, no way. You’d think felony charges are contagious or something.”

I don’t float my alternative theory. That people are too disgusted to talk to us. That we carry the stench of the rotting and rotten.

“I’m so mad at you.”

“I know. You should be.”

“I’m so mad at you.” I shout it this time, loud enough that I wonder if there are paparazzi still outside, even at this hour, and if they can hear me.

“I know.” She reaches for my hand, and I pull away. She can’t touch me. I’m not ready for that. I worry her fingers will singe my skin. “The problem is we aren’t allowed to talk. Not about the big stuff. The judge said we aren’t supposed to discuss, you know, the thing.”

My mom says this calmly, rationally, like she has accepted the concept of not being legally allowed to talk to her own daughter. I remember us sitting right here in the fall, celebrating my first kiss with Levi.

“The thing? Is that what you’re calling it?”

“My alleged crimes,” she says, finally looking up at me. She takes in my disheveled hair, the toothpaste on the boob of my T-shirt. My eyes are swollen from crying. My nail beds are crusty with blood, since I’ve taken to chewing on my cuticles. There’s a burn in my gut: the churn of fear and guilt. “Because you could be called as a witness or, you know, be charged—”

She stops here, and as if in slow motion, she crumbles. Her forehead rests on the table. Her arms wrap around her knees. A sound like a horse’s whinny escapes through her lips or maybe her nose. I want to rub her back like she used to rub mine when I was home with a fever.

I also want to punch her in the face.

I didn’t know you could feel blistering love and hate at the exact same time, but here we are.

“So now you want to follow the rules,” I say, remembering Kenny’s warning. How I’m not supposed to talk to my mother. Funny that it’s the only thing I can think of to do. A few years ago, we learned in school that you should never throw water on a grease fire even though that’s our natural instinct when we see flames. That’s how it feels to turn to my mom—like she is both the water and the fire.

I think of Isla up in her room, probably googling away. A better use of my time, and yet.