“I’m going next door,” Landry calls from the living room, and I lean over the narrow island to see her stepping into her shoes as she shoves both arms into her coat.

“It’s a school night!” I remind her.

“I’ll be back in an hour. Norah and I are working on our science project.”

“Without Fletcher?” Penn calls after her, but the only answer he gets is the click of the front door closing. “They’re not working,” he mumbles, already headed to the pantry for something else to eat.

But I’m not really listening.

“Hey. What’s up with you?” Penn pokes me with the corner of a box of Pop-Tarts, and I realize I’ve been staring into the sink, without seeing the dishes stacked in it.

I open my mouth to tell him about what I heard in the salon. About the reporter. About Amira and Jake’s confirmation that pretty much all of Clifford thinks our dad was a redneck criminal and our mom is a dirty cop. But I can’t do it. Not while he’s wearing the cap the West Point recruiter gave him at the college fair, thinking about how great his life is going to be once he’s out of this shithole town.

Unfortunately, what comes out of my mouth instead isn’t much better.

“Hey, where’s your Titans shirt? The one you got on the senior trip to Nashville.”

“What?”

He sinks onto the middle bar stool and opens my last box of Pop-Tarts. They’re chocolate peanut butter. My favorite. He better not eat them all.

“Your Titans shirt,” I repeat as I start loading the dishwasher, as if my question is no big deal. “I haven’t seen you wear it in a while.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The wrapper crinkles as he rips open one of my Pop-Tarts. “Why do you care about my shirt?”

I pull the sprayer out of its hole next to the faucet and rinse off the skillet Landry used to sauté the chicken. Or maybe the zucchini noodles. I’m a little fuzzy on how this whole meal came together.

“Beckett. You have the subtlety of Godzilla on a rampage. What’s going on?”

I turn, leaning against the sink with my arms crossed over my chest. “Mom’s trying to find the owner of a Titans shirt just like yours.”

“And by Mom, you mean the cops?” Penn drops his half-eaten Pop-Tart onto the open wrapper still containing its twin. “This is about that baby? Do you seriously think I have anything to do with that?”

“No.” Maybe? I feel like a bitch for even asking, but … “Basically any of the senior guys who bought that shirt are going to be questioned. I just thought you should have a heads-up.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me that, instead of trying to interrogate me on the sly?”