My cousin nods at me, understanding, Cleopatra makeup slightly askew.

“Right. Well, then …” Have a good evening? Enjoy sleeping with the enemy—literally? Please, continue your toxic relationship that is clearly ruining your life? “I don’t know,” I mumble while I exit the room. “Whatever, Evie.”

As I’m pulling the door handle, the second Evie’s head turns away, Adrian puckers up and makes a kissy face at me.

Just for a second, I consider sticking my phone back inside the door and taking a quick photo of him as revenge for what he’s done to me, but my mind quickly sobers to what that photo would entail: He’s on Evie’s bed. Besides. I’m not sinking down to his muck. Screw him.

I slam the door behind me.

At first, I head into my room, but it’s next to hers, and I can hear them arguing through the walls. That’s too weird, so I quickly head to Mom’s room and shut the door, listening for sounds that Adrian’s clearing out of the apartment.

They’re definitely fighting. Good.

I’m not sure whether to be mad at Evie or disappointed. Hurt? It was one thing for her to go to him that first time after the party, when they were in the wreck together, if she was genuinely trying to get him to talk his dad into dropping the department store window settlement against Lucky. But now?

He broke the Karrases’ window.

He showed everyone a nude photo of my mother—thinking it was me.

That’s not okay. And I’m furious that she’d disregard all that like it wasn’t a big deal. Because it is. But even if none of that had happened, he’s still a dick. He still treated her like shit at that party. He humiliated her. He harassed her, sending all those demanding texts. And if he’s going to show everyone nude pictures of “me”—someone he doesn’t even know or care about—then what’s to stop him from doing the same to her if he gets mad enough?

He’s got warning signs written all over him.

Why can’t she see that?

I don’t know what to do about it. Talk to her, I guess. Maybe it’s time to talk to my mom—which is a weird thing to think about. We’re such terrific communicators and fine examples of piety. Ugh.

When I’m pretty sure he’s not sticking around, I glance at the closet door in Mom’s room. Grandma’s old closet. Locked. Personal stuff that she didn’t want to move into storage when she left for Nepal.

Maybe old family stuff.

Maybe old photos.

Secrets.