Thomas finds himself on Hickory, a street whose inhabitants tend to like their booze cheap and hard. He rolls past the Crow home and for the life of him he can’t associate any sort of liquor with Beth. In fact, he’s not even certain that Beth has stepped foot in the bar. Not much of a drinker, Thomas thinks. Or just not a barfly. Thomas remembers Jordyn saying something about how Violet’s mom worked all the time. He imagines it’s not easy being a single parent and can’t fathom raising his boys on his own.

He wants to be angry with Beth and wants to hate Violet, but finds he can’t. Violet has always seemed like a nice girl, has always seemed to bring out a softer side of Jordyn. He didn’t know much about that boy Gabe.

The sun is just beginning to rise, turning the eastern sky moscato pink and triple sec gold while the west remains blanketed in what’s left of the night. Thomas heads back west, passing by a whiskey sour, a Tom Collins and a planter’s punch. He turns onto Apple Street and drives slowly past the teacher’s house. John Dover. Cold Press Black Ale served in a frosted mug.

That damnable assignment seems to be the catalyst for this whole rotten mess. What kind of teacher tells his students to research ghosts and murderers and the like? When he was a kid, they were required to research Civil War battles and famous explorers. He spent many unsuccessful hours memorizing poems and important historical dates. Nowadays, kids could just look that all up on their phones. Ridiculous.

A bubble of resentment rises in his throat as he circles around the block and comes to a stop in front of the Dover house. If Mr. Dover hadn’t given the assignment and hadn’t teamed the three girls together this would have never happened. Here, he’s sleeping soundly in his own bed while his granddaughter is locked away. It’s not right. A shift in shadows at the front window catches his eye. So maybe John Dover isn’t resting so peacefully right now. Good, Thomas thinks. Serves him right.

Thomas takes a left back onto Main and another left onto Juneberry, a street filled with four-bedroom homes and large backyards. The people who live on Juneberry tend to veer toward the more expensive beers. Guinness, IPAs, microbrew and craft beers. They are also the worst tippers.