“I hate him,” she cuts me off, before shaking her head, getting some of her hair out of her face. Even in the midst of her turmoil, she’s stunning. “I fucking hate both of them.”

Compassion threatens to wash over me, and it feels horribly misplaced. This is the same person who made an attempt on my life, lied about it, and led me to believe I could trust her. I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for her. She doesn’t deserve it. But to be treated the way she is by her parents . . . I don’t know that I’m cruel enough to say she deserves that.

“Why was he so angry?”

She lets out a ragged breath, face threatening to crumple, revealing the cracks in her nearly perfect facade. “The cops keep showing up at our house,” she confesses. “They think I’m involved in your accident somehow. It’s ridiculous. I had nothing to do with it!”

The desperation in her eyes makes me feel cold. If I didn’t know any better, I’d find her performance convincing. With great difficulty, I work to keep my expression concerned instead of distrusting.

“What the hell?” I shake my head. “Why do you think they’re coming after you?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaims, looking panicked. The car swerves slightly, and I feel my pulse in my throat. “You’re my best friend, Allie. Why would I want to hurt you?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Zoe thinks for a few beats, not seeming to pay much attention to the road, yet subconsciously managing to take us in the direction of the trail. “They’re wasting their time. I’m not the one they should be looking at.”

I freeze. “You think someone else is actually involved?”

There’s a flicker of fear on her face as she looks between me and the street in quick succession. “If the cops are investigating, obviously something about it is suspicious. And I have a strong feeling I know exactly who it was.”

This is unexpected. I thought Zoe would just maintain that I simply crashed my car into a tree, that the accident was entirely my own doing. But I suppose after revealing the police are interested in her, throwing the blame on someone else makes sense from a guilty standpoint.

“Who?”

“Mason.”

To her credit, she has the gall to look me dead in the eyes, gauging my reaction.

“Mason?” I repeat, incredulous. “What makes you think it was him?”

“He was totally obsessed with you,” she remarks emphatically. “I used to always catch him staring. And I never told you this, but you guys talked at the party. You turned him down. He probably never got over you dumping him as a kid and hated seeing you with Damien all the time. Maybe he snapped.”

“Really?”