Long enough for me to spill my guts to him about my Los Angeles plans.

But I don’t say this, of course.

“And then he followed me, and I was so angry about the photo … I threw the rock, and the alarm went off,” I tell her. “The security guard caught us, but the cop didn’t care who did it—he took us both in. Said they could sort it out at the station. So we got hauled off together. I told Lucky I’d clear things up and make sure they knew I did it. But I guess he told the police he did it, and they let me go free.”

“Son of a bitch,” Evie murmurs, blinking at me in surprise.

“Mom believed it,” I say. “And she said it would be a felony, and I got scared, and I didn’t know what to do. But I don’t want him to go to jail for me. I don’t even know him anymore! Now everything’s way out of control, and there he goes, and I can’t even talk to him before he gets sent off to death row—”

“He’s not going to death row.”

“I don’t know what to do, Evie. We used to be best friends, but we barely know each other now. I can’t let him do this for me. It’s too weird, right?”

She looks rattled. She never looks rattled. Only two times in the months since we’ve moved here has she been anything but unflappable and even-keeled: last night when Adrian was fighting with her, and now. This time it’s my fault.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I just got so mad. The Harvard rower whose name we aren’t speaking made you cry at the party, and the photo—”

I can’t finish. I’m too upset now. Thankfully, I don’t have to, because Evie’s eyes are glossy with emotion, and in this moment right now, I know she understands.

“Shit,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” I say.

We both stare out the window at the Karrases’ caravan of cars. Lucky’s dad flips over the CLOSED sign on the office door to the boatyard, locks the door, and heads to his truck, rubbing his hand through his hair as if he’s worried and nervous. Guess I would be too, if I were taking my child to an arraignment for a possible felony.

When I was a kid, sometimes I felt like the Karrases were more of a family to me than my own. I can’t make these nice people go through this. I just can’t.

Adrenaline pumping through my limbs, I race toward the bookshop door with the intention of stopping them.

“Josie?”

I stop in my tracks, hand reaching for the shop door, and turn to look at my mother.

“What’s the matter, shutterbug?” she asks, looking puzzled. “You okay?”