Before she was arrested, we drove to school together. We’d stop at the Starbucks across the street and order mocha lattes, listening to Carrie Underwood songs. After she was arrested, my parents seemed to have an unspoken agreement that no one touched her things. Her bedroom door remained closed at the end of the hall; her granola bars were still in the cupboard, pushed to the back, hidden behind soup cans; one of her socks was still on the floor in front of the washing machine.

But after Emily’s defense attorney managed to convince the police to release her car after it had been impounded (on the grounds that no evidence was found related to the case), I started driving it to school every morning. The first morning I did it, a part of me hoped it would still sort of smell like her inside, like if she couldn’t be there, then maybe the fruity notes of her perfume would be, clinging to the seats. Instead it smelled like cleaning products, the scent stinging my nose. Everything of hers had been taken out, even the trash in the glove compartment. It was like a totally new car, complete with a pine-scented air freshener, but with old memories lingering in the cracks between the seats, like crumbs.

When I pulled into the school parking lot, there were still a few kids sitting in the comfort of their heated cars. The heater in Emily’s car was broken, just like everything else seemed to be. I turned the engine off and sat there drinking my latte, feeling its warmth against my fingertips. Through the windshield, I spotted Kolby Rutledge trudging through the slush.

He was wearing a black puffer vest with a collar and a pair of jeans that were a little worn in the knees. His beanie was pulled over the tops of his ears, his brown hair poking out from underneath, and his Timberlands were damp from walking through slush and snow. His cheeks were rosy from the cold.

I felt a pang of guilt watching him jog up to the school’s front doors. Griffin Tomlin used to give him a ride every morning after Kolby had totaled his car last winter skidding on black ice. Kolby’s parents couldn’t buy him another car, and the insurance didn’t amount to much, so Griffin had driven him to school—until last September, anyway.

I reached across the console and grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat. A few of the kids hanging out in their cars looked over when they heard me slam my door, then quickly glanced away. My classmates usually ignored me, just like they had when Emily was in the driver’s seat and I was in the passenger’s, where we’d both belonged.