“Well,” Audrey says, picking up the nearest book and flipping to a page. “I never knew you were a fan of bodice rippers.”

“Excuse me?”

I look down at the book in her hands to see the photograph of a scantily clad woman clinging to a shirtless man on the front cover, and I realize what section I’ve brought us to. Cheeks burning, I snatch it out of her hands and shove it back on the shelf as she laughs.

“Hey, no judgment,” she quips.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” I insist.

“At least it’s private,” she says, sinking down and sitting cross-legged on the floor. “You could hide away in here for hours.”

Mimicking her, I take a seat on the hardwood, feeling safer the more out of sight we are. I pick at a scuff mark on the floor, listening to the classical music floating down from overhead.

“Audrey, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah?”

I swallow. “Do you know Jacob Griffin?”

She instantly looks uncomfortable, and lowers her gaze. “Everyone in town does,” she murmurs. “Why do you ask?”

“Did I do that to him?” My voice falters.

“Allie,” she says, sympathetic as she scoots closer to me and places a hand on my back. “I never believed it was you. I know his sister thinks otherwise, but you’ve always vehemently denied it.”

“I could’ve lied.”

“I genuinely don’t believe you were capable of doing something like that, even at your worst. Slipping an extra dress into your bag at Plaisir and drinking under the bleachers during class were more your style.” Audrey pauses. “How did you find out about all of this?”

I lift a shoulder, unmoved by her words. “I saw an article about it. And then the other day at school, Amber confronted me, so I got Zoe to tell me the whole story.”

“What happened to Jacob was tragic,” she says. “He’s lucky to have survived. I think his family is trying to find the truth.”

Even if Audrey doesn’t believe it was me, that doesn’t change the fact that someone did that to Jacob. Someone at school.

After a few beats of silence, Audrey bumps my knee with hers. “Hey, the purpose of this trip isn’t to sulk in the back of a dusty bookstore,” she teases gently. “Let’s do something fun. What if we try to pick out a book for each other?”

“Sure. Be serious, though,” I warn. “No bodice rippers.”

“You’re so lame.”