It was the summer after Ellie’s high school graduation. It was also the summer when her older brother declared that he was moving to New York City to try to live his dream of being a rock star. She couldn’t remember the exact dates—summer was summer back then—but she had her suspicions.

“Is that why you left?”

“Steve found me the next day. He got the callout after the responding officers realized who the victim was. He told me he knew I was partying at the house and that the owner had come home and been shot in the driveway and died.”

“So how did he know?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ve always assumed the house had cameras or something, and that he covered up for me. I can’t even tell you how fucking scared I was. I explained everything. Told him I’d go to the station and take a lie detector test, because no way did I shoot anyone. It had to be that lunatic who was having his rage attack. But Steve said that even if everyone believed me, we were there without permission, and a bunch of stuff was broken, so they’d argue it was a residential burglary, plus someone had died as a result. Everyone at the house was guilty of murder. Lights out, we’d be done.”

The legal analysis wasn’t wrong. The felony murder doctrine was the biggest shortcut in the world for prosecutors, allowing them to convict every single person involved in a felony, regardless of who pulled the trigger or whether the shooting was even intentional.

“I can’t believe you and Steve didn’t tell me any of this. What am I, Mom?”

“Oh my god. Ellie, please, don’t do that. You wanted to be a cop like Dad. I wasn’t going to screw that up for you. That’s why I left. Don’t you get it? I was banishing myself. I realized how messed up it was that I was even in that situation to begin with. And forcing Steve into a corner like that? I needed to get out of Dodge.”

“So do you recognize her picture?” Ellie asked, gesturing to her phone.

“Not really, and I honestly don’t remember the girl’s name, but it’s got to be her, right?”

“Is there a way to reach TC and ask?”

He shook his head. “About ten years ago, I saw on Facebook that she died of an oxy overdose. I mean, maybe she would have ended up down that road anyway, but Jesus, I know what kind of guilt I’ve carried around all these years. When she found out what happened, she said it was all her fault for bringing the mushrooms in the first place.”

“What about this guy?” She pulled up a photograph of Alex Lopez.

He tilted his head, studying the picture. “Yeah, that could be the boyfriend.”