And that’s what snaps me into action. A little fury rises up in me. I quickly dig out my phone and flick on the camera.

“What are you doing?” Mom says, horrified. “You’re taking a picture of this?”

“We’ll need evidence when we sue.”

She raises her hands then drops them, utterly confused. Raindrops dot her cat-eye lenses. “Josie? Sue who?”

“Adrian Summers. Or maybe his father?” I don’t know how it works.

A strange sound burrs from Mom’s mouth. She just shakes her head in disbelief, ignores me, and races to the Nook’s door to snatch at the damp paper. It’s been plastered on with some kind of thick glue, and the recent rain has made the paper one big sticker. “It’s not coming off!”

I scoot her over and reach for a corner of the poster, using my fingernail to scratch. She’s right. It’s fixed fast. It rips in places, but it’s not coming off in one piece. “It’s like wallpaper,” I tell I her. “Maybe that’s what was used. Wallpaper paste?”

“You might be right.” She’s able to peel off most of her nipples. “That’s a little better. What about the sticker remover gunk in the stockroom?”

“We’re almost out, but there’s a little left in one of the boxes under the counter. There’s a metal scraper, too, I’m pretty sure.” Maybe some of the chemicals I use to develop my photos … “We’ll find something. Come on.”

Her hands are shaking so badly, she drops her store keys, so I pick them up and unlock the door, punching in the security code when we step inside. Then I grab some sticky notes from the register, quickly stick as many of them as I can over the remainder of the poster, and shut off the outside light. A temporary fix, but it buys us some time.

Mom turns on a tiny work lamp near the register; the only other illumination comes from the red EXIT sign above the stockroom and streetlights shining through the windows, along with the occasional car headlights. She pulls out a box and slams it on the counter, then proceeds to rifle through it angrily.

“Why would Adrian Summers have one of my modeling photos from college?” she asks in a tight voice.

“No clue,” I say. “But he had it on his phone at the party that night Lucky and I got taken to the police station. He thinks it’s me.”

“What?”

I nod slowly. “Doesn’t show your full face … only enough of your face that it could be mistaken for mine. And I don’t know where he got it. I don’t know how many people have seen it, but he flashed it around at the party.”