“Oh my God,” she whimpers, abandoning her search inside the box. “That photo is all over town? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry about it,” I say.

“Oh, Josie.”

“Anyway, Adrian’s the one who did this, probably to get back at Evie because she broke up with him again. And …”

And to get back at me.

This is his crowbar through our window.

I didn’t cover my tracks well enough—when I caught him in Evie’s bed, and I slipped up, talking about throwing the rock.

He knows it wasn’t Lucky.

“I can’t believe it,” Mom says, a stunned look on her face as she stands at the counter, taking off her glasses to wipe them on her shirt. “All these years, and those stupid photos are finally coming back to haunt me now. Unbelievable. I’ll tell you who I should sue, and it’s not the Summers family. I should sue Henry Zabka.”

Umm … “Excuse me?”

“They’re his photos. I should sue him for releasing them without my permission. I never signed anything that said he could.”

Now I’m confused. “You never signed a release?”

“Nope.”

“But weren’t they for class or whatever?”

“It was a private session on campus, but after he showed them in class as examples, I later found out that no current students are allowed to model, and definitely no one under twenty-one. He pretended to be ignorant about it, like it was an honest mistake. But he knew all along what he was doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he distributed the photos online somewhere.”

“Whoa,” I say. “Let’s not go flinging accusations. You don’t know how Adrian got this photo. Maybe Henry donated them to the school?”

“Without my permission?

Yikes. Yeah, even I know that’s not legit. “I’m sure it’s just a mix-up. Maybe they were stolen—off the cloud, or something? That happens all the time.”

“You’re defending him?”

“Someone has to,” I say. “Everyone is always attacking him, and no one here knows him. Maybe give him the benefit of the doubt, okay? He’s a family man now. Why would he suddenly release nude photos of you for revenge?”

She chuckles darkly. “A family man. Oh, you know him so well, do you? Those yearly phone calls that last for all of five minutes? Because he can’t be bothered to come visit you anymore. The last time he saw you in person was for half an hour at Thirtieth Street Station in Philadelphia two years ago when he was waiting for a train. You were fifteen.”

“He’s busy! And we text.”

“Oh really?”

“I send him photos to show him what I’ve been working on.”

“And he comments on those photos?”

“He did once … a few months ago.” He told me to work on my negative space.