But the thing is, he didn’t sound mad. He wasn’t threatening me or angry. I look back over the texts to be sure, and yeah. He sounds sad about Evie. And he said he’s sorry. I can’t tell if that’s genuine regret or one of those warning signs from an abusive partner the day after they did something terrible. It’s a text, so I can’t read his body language or pick up on some of the clues he might leave if I talked to him in person. When it’s a text, it’s hard to tell … I think. I’m not sure. I wish I was more certain.

And here’s what else is bothering me: I’ve been wrong about everything. What makes me so sure I haven’t been wrong about this, too?

Because now that I’m thinking about it … Lucky was really curious about my father. He mentioned that he’d read things about him. He knew things from articles online. Gossip about child support—he definitely had kept up with my father.

If he was poking around online, looking up things about my father, it’s not outrageous to think that perhaps, just maybe, he might have come across one of my mom’s photos in some kind of photography forum somewhere.

Maybe it started innocently enough, poking around online. How it got to Adrian, I don’t know. Macho stupid drunken boys’ night? He was at the Golden party that night, after all.

Did he feel bad about it?

Guilty.

Guilty enough to take the fall for me about the window.

No.

That’s impossible. I’m mad at myself for even thinking it. And yet …

Mom and Evie are talking about the upcoming Victory Day flotilla across the front seat of the Pink Panther as we head into the South Harbor, passing a line of people waiting to get inside a Revolutionary War–themed wax museum. But I can barely hear them over the rapid thump of my heart. I clutch my purse in my lap so hard, I feel the contents shift inside and have to force my fingers to unclench.

Guilty enough to take the fall.

We turn on our street. Pass Manny’s clam shack and the doughnut shop. Evie is talking about Grandma’s surprise condo.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

“Stop the car!” I shout.

Mom slams on the brakes. A truck behind us honks, and my mother steers toward the curb, narrowly avoiding being rear-ended. “Josie—what the hell?”

“I have to take care of something,” I say, jumping out of the car and looking for a break in the traffic to cross over to the boatyard. “I’ll meet you at home later. I’m sorry. It’s important. Life-or-death relationship important.”