Mom lets the Andersons in as we step into the living room. Either Fletcher is an only child or they’ve left his siblings at home, because it’s just him and his parents. Thank goodness.

His mother and father look very, very worried about whatever has earned them this call on Christmas Eve, but Fletcher looks terrified. He steps over the threshold with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up to his ears beneath his thick gray coat. His gaze is on the floor, then he finally looks up, and his eyes widen when he sees Landry’s tearstained face.

“Mrs. Bergen.” Mr. Anderson closes our front door at his back, and for once I decide not to comment on her title. My mom isn’t a cop tonight. “Maybe you should just tell us what this is about.”

“Yes.” Mom rubs her palms on the front of her jeans. “Would you like to sit?”

Mrs. Anderson starts toward the sofa, but then her husband clears his throat pointedly. “We’re fine,” he says, while Fletcher scuffs the toe of his left sneaker in our carpet. “What’s going on?”

My mother pulls Landry into a side hug, keeping her arm protectively around my sister’s waist. “Well, there’s no easy way to start this conversation. But I assume you’ve all heard about Lullaby Doe, the baby found at the high school.”

“Of course. But what—?” Mrs. Anderson’s hands fly up to cover her mouth and nose, while her gaze flicks between my sister and her son. “No …”

Fletcher looks up again, and it’s clear from his confused frown that he hasn’t made the connection. “Wait, what? I thought …”

I don’t know what he thought. That he was in trouble for not finishing the extra credit project? Or maybe that my mother found out, seven months late, that he and Landry had sex. Maybe he thought this was going to be some kind of a middle-school abstinence intervention.

Landry bursts into fresh, quiet tears, and a look of utter shock washes over Fletcher.

“Oh my god,” Mrs. Anderson whispers.

“What did you do?” Mr. Anderson grabs Fletcher’s arm and practically jerks him off his feet. “What the hell did you do?”

“He didn’t know,” my mother insists, letting go of Landry so she can hold both hands out, deescalating the situation out of habit, evidently. “Landry was afraid to tell anyone until this afternoon. But now that we know, I suggest we all just sit down and—”

The doorbell rings again, and my mother frowns with a glance out the window, where there’s just enough light left in the sky for her to see whoever has pulled up in front of our house. “Beckett.” She gestures for me to answer the door. “Take it to your room, please.”