The door opens. “Please stop ringing the bell, Beckett.”

“I have cookies.” I hold up the plate, but she doesn’t even look at it. “And an apology.”

Amira leans against the right side of her door frame and crosses her arms, evidently waiting for me to go on.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about the baby. I, of all people, should know how shitty it feels not to be believed. The only excuse I can make for myself is that I really need to get to the truth. That feels like the only way I can clear my own name. Since someone smart stopped me from baring my stretch-mark-free belly to the entire school.”

Finally, she smiles. “I’m starting to think that was the right impulse after all. Maybe that would have put an end to this a week ago.”

“It wouldn’t have. You were right; people believe what they want to believe. So until someone comes forward and claims that baby—until someone gives them a story they’d rather believe—I’m stuck with these rumors.” And, possibly, the death threats.

Amira steps back to clear the doorway. “Come in. And bring the cookies.”

I step inside and close the door, then I follow her into the kitchen. “Would those be good with hot chocolate?” she asks.

“Yes. Thanks.” I set the plate on her counter and lean back against one of the cabinets while she makes us each a mug of hot chocolate from little white packets printed with an outline of the Swiss Alps.

“So.” She sets a mug in front of me. It’s shaped like a cat, with pointed ears sticking up and a tail for a handle. “What made you decide I was telling the truth?”

I asked Sophia that same question yesterday, and she didn’t seem to have as much trouble answering it as I am. I take a sip of hot chocolate from between the cat ears to buy time to think.

Amira gives me a look. “I take it you didn’t spontaneously come to your senses.”

“I think we both know that if there’s any way to misinterpret the situation, I’m going to find it.”

She snorts into her plain blue mug. “When we were kids, you always took the winding path to any goal, be it the swings or an invitation to a sleepover.”

“My dad called it the—”

“—the scenic route. I remember.” She takes a long sip. “He told me once that being your friend would never be easy.”

I set my mug down and stare at her. “He did? Really?”