And yet it went no further than that. As soon as I started to take off his belt, he stopped me.

Wait, he said. I should get home.

I shower, and dress—the sky has turned gray and heavy, I notice—and as I wrangle with my hair I think about weak spots. Being a lawyer is a little like being a doctor in reverse: you look for the damage and try to grow it, try to push in, dig a little deeper, open up the festering places, like how I used to scout the woods for soft soil, spaces where I could easily bury my belongings—little things I didn’t want my dad to find, like the cigarette stub Kaycee and I split in fifth grade, the one and only time I tried smoking, or the orange blush and shiny mirrored compact, obviously stolen, she gave me for my birthday.

Carolina Dawes has confirmed we’re right about the water, but she isn’t enough: she’s not credible, and Optimal will no doubt be able to show that Coop comes in contact with a number of things that might have caused skin irritation. And Optimal’s public image is as sturdy and slick as the plastics they make. Still, there must be a weak spot, a break, a place I can crack with a little bit of pressure.

Luckily, there’s only one Brent O’Connell in Barrens, and it seems he’s an early riser.

—

Woody’s is just clearing its breakfast rush when I arrive an hour later. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time before getting out of the car. My dark waves—one good feature I inherited from my mother—have already expanded in the humidity, but I look alert and sharp and, shockingly, not at all hungover. If I’m not beautiful, I’m still nothing like the girl I was when he knew me.

The sky darkens overhead, and I wonder when the clouds will tire of holding back the rain and let go.

Before I get a chance to open the door, it swings open from the inside, and there’s Brent O’Connell, smiling, motioning me inside. I was hoping he might have gotten fat, or lost some of his hair.

He looks just the same as he did in high school—blue eyes, blond hair, a boy-next-door, but all grown up. The only thing that’s changed is his clothing. He has abandoned the ripped jeans and V-neck T-shirts of our high school years for khakis and a collared shirt.

And even though I’m wearing tailored jeans and a decent blazer, I have a brief flash of panic: It’s an act, and he’ll know it. All the seams will come apart.

I remember his skin, warm despite the chill of the lake water that dripped from his hair. I remember voices in the distance, the smell of house paint and wood smoke. How he reached for my hair, how he left me, wordlessly, lifting a finger to his lips. Shhh.

“Abby Williams,” he says. “God. You look fantastic.”