WGN shows their ten-second clip of me ducking into a black town car in front of the mayor’s house. I’m wearing a brand-new Tory Burch coat. My wet, ratted hair adorned with seaweed looks darker. Sandy instead of whiteish blonde. Following it, they have a clip of Richard outside the mayor’s house telling reporters I’ve requested privacy as my mom and I “deal with these traumatizing events.” His shoulders bend forward like he’s hiding his height. He claims the mayor found me on the dock and carried me into his home. Sure, I was passed out when it happened, but I didn’t see the mayor the entire time I was in his house, making me wonder whether he was there at all.

“The mayor,” Richard continues, “is doing everything he can to help Miss Finch deal with what she’s experienced.”

I pull my hair back, wet from showering, and twist it at the nape of my neck so it falls down my back as one slick ponytail.

A giant thud comes from the kitchen, startling me. My mom stands over the spilled leftovers of tonight’s dinner, which neither of us ate. Taco meat, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, and cheese fan out across our tile floor while she stares at the mess like it’s the worst thing to have happened to her today. My eyes flit back to the TV screen.

Emi Vega flashes a bright, insincere smile. “. . . our hearts go out to the Finch family and the victim’s family tonight.”

Outside, the lights dim as WGN cuts their live feed. I turn down the TV volume and shut the nebulizer off, even though my liquid cocktail isn’t fully evaporated. I test my freshly pampered lungs with a deep inhale before gathering the neb pieces and walking from our impeccable living room to our impeccable kitchen—aside from the scattered taco fillings.

I try not to stare, but my mom’s immobility unnerves me. Setting the neb parts on the counter, I grab the broom from the utility closet, just as clean and organized as the rest of the house. Clutter is inexcusable—even behind closed doors.

It isn’t until I start sweeping our ruined meal that my mom turns away and washes her hands in the sink.

This is how it’s been since she met me at the hospital. She ran into the ER, frightened and disheveled, in rare Maggie Finch form, to give me the longest, tightest hug we’ve ever had. Then she excused herself, no doubt to fix misplaced strands of fallen hair and reapply her lipstick. When she returned, she didn’t say a word. Didn’t even make eye contact. I gave my statement to the questioning officers while she stood in the doorway, lifting her chin away from my bed as if she didn’t want to hear anything I had to say.