If Misha proposed selling the photos through Mitchell’s store, Kaycee might have tried to stop it. Not out of moral duty, but because that was like her: to change her mind, to want something one day and then stop wanting it as soon as other people agreed. Plus, she hated her father; maybe she saw this as a chance to stand up to him. Or she was simply afraid of getting caught. But I can’t remember that Kaycee was ever afraid.

And if Condor is right about Frank Mitchell, that leaves only Misha with a strong enough motive to kill her: Misha, who always had a thing for Kaycee’s boyfriend; Misha, the crueler, coarser, uglier version of her best friend; Misha, who lied to Brent about speaking to Kaycee on the phone; Misha, who tried to focus my attention on Kaycee’s dad by hinting to me in the community center; Misha, who only plays dumb.

Misha, who might be the smartest of all of us.

I wonder if Annie Baum and Cora Allen suspected what happened, or whether they even helped. It might explain why they’ve spent the past decade trying to drink or drug themselves into forgetting.

That leaves the question of whether Brent knows, too. But I just can’t believe it. No matter what he says now, he must have loved Kaycee once. He’s been trying to help me, even though it must pain him. He’s been trying to help Misha, too. And I can’t believe he would help her if he knew she was a monster.

“I think Misha kept the Game going all this time,” I continue, “changing the rules, using the scholarship money as incentive—and insurance.” I remember the day I visited, how her secretary was collecting phones, turning them over to Misha as punishment for texting in class. Likely targets for a much bigger operation.

Lilian stands abruptly and moves to the window. There’s no view to speak of: just a half-empty parking lot.

“We transferred Amy to a private school after it happened,” Lilian says. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“She might know more than you think.”

“She put all that behind her.” Lilian’s voice breaks. “It nearly killed her. She’s finally happy…”

“This is bigger than just her,” I say, as gently as I can.

To her credit, Lilian doesn’t cry. I see the urge move through her, bucking her spine and shoulders. But when she speaks again, she sounds calm.

“Should we call her together?” she asks. “Or would you prefer to speak to her alone?”

—

In the end I opt not to speak to her by phone at all. Culver Boarding School, where Amy has stayed on for a summer arts immersion course, is two hours north of Indianapolis; it’s early evening when I arrive and though I haven’t been sleeping I feel more alert than I have in weeks.

It takes me fifteen minutes to locate the student center where she has agreed to meet me for coffee. I worry she’ll have lost her nerve in the time it took me to drive up here.