Tonight, the sink is empty. The dishes are haphazardly stacked in a white plastic-coated wire dish rack that is chipped and rusted in places. The trash can has obviously just been emptied, and the linoleum looks recently swept.

Jake’s hoping to knock time off his sentence for good behavior. Even though he’s being punished based on a rumor.

I follow him silently past the small dining room, which Mrs. Mercer uses as a work space for the ceramic Christmas houses she paints to sell at the flea market in Daley. The living room is dark and empty except for the multicolored glow of an old artificial Christmas tree. The angel on top sits slightly crooked, her halo brushing the popcorn texture on the ceiling.

Soft voices echo from Jake’s parents’ room on the far side of the living room. I can’t tell what they’re saying, yet I know exactly what they’re talking about.

Me and my corrupting influence on the beacon of light and innocence that is their only son.

The other kitchen doorway leads into the hall, where Jake’s sister’s room is on the left and the bathroom is on the right. Emily’s door is closed, but light leaks from beneath it. She’s home from UT Knoxville for winter break, and I can’t really blame her for hiding out in her room. For hanging her little brother out to dry.

Jake’s room is at the end of the hall. His dresser is made of chipped pressboard, the mirror over it discolored from age. There’s a path worn into the carpet between the bed and the door, and the wallpaper is yellowed in the corners.

I’ve always felt at home here.

He closes the door behind us, and I sit on the edge of his unmade bed, because there’s nowhere else to sit.

This room is a catalog of every moment I’ve ever spent here, and I can’t help flipping the pages. Living it all over again, in the two seconds it takes him to get from the door to the bed, where he sits next to me. Where the space between us forms a canyon carved by every word I’ve said in the past week. By every word he’s held back.

“You think it’ll be tonight? The warrant,” he adds, when I’m not sure which conversation he’s reviving.

“Probably. Everyone wants to close this case as quickly as possible.” To put an end to the mortifying national media coverage. Not to mention the social media coverage. “I also told my mom you know the baby’s gender. She’s trying to figure out who the Crimson Cryer is, and that detail wasn’t released to the public.”

Jake exhales heavily. “I already told you—”

“I know. I told her you’re not the Cryer. But they’re going to ask you about it.”