“It really is nothing,” I say, my boots scuffing against the sidewalk. “I just …” I blow out an exhale as she stares me down hard. Like really, really hard. “Dude, you seriously have the scariest interrogation face ever.”

“Oh, I know,” she assures me confidentially. “I learned from the best. I also learned how to crack someone open from the best.”

“Who’s the best?” I ask, curious and also trying to change the subject.

She drags her finger across her lips. “Nope. Not telling until you do.”

I hesitate, unsure what to do. Back in the day, before my parents died, I used to have friends. I think I might be out of practice now.

“I got this weird message,” I reply vaguely. “But it’s not really a bad deal.”

A crease forms between her brow. “What’d it say?”

I chew on my bottom lip, deliberating how much I should confess. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to ask questions, so I don’t have to lie. Because I can’t tell you much about it. Not yet anyway.”

She squints against the sunlight as she studies me closely. “Okay, I think I can do that.”

A breath eases from my lips as I retrieve my phone from out of my pocket and hand it to her. She takes the phone from me, reads it, then glances up at me with question marks filling her eyes.

“I …” She smashes her lips together, pausing. “You have no idea who it’s from?”

I shrug. “My best bet is my cousin had someone send it to me.”

“Your cousin?” she asks. “Wait—is she blonde and kind of a bitch?”

I nod. “Yep. That’d be the one.”

“She’s the one you were worried about giving the makeup case, too, right?”

I nod again.

“Why do you think it’s her? And why did you guys move here at the same time, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“You’re fine.” In fact, her questions aren’t that awful. Well, unless they lead to certain kinds of follow-up questions. “I think it’s her because she threatens to tell people stuff about me all the time. And usually, she does. And we moved here at the same time because I live with her family.”

She hesitates. “Where’s your family?”

Anxiety clutches my throat. “They … They died a while ago.”

Pity fills her eyes as she slows to a stop near the curb. “I’m sorry.” She swallows audibly. “My mom died, too, when I was born, actually, during childbirth.”

I stop in front of her, my heart aching for her. “I’m sorry.”

She dismisses me with a shrug. “You don’t need to say you’re sorry. I just wanted to tell you so you’d know that I kind of understand what it feels like to lose someone. Not that I ever knew my mom.” She mutters the last part then turns around and starts walking again, across the parking lot.

A few people are here and there, and I catch some of them glancing my way. It makes me cringe. Do they know who I am? Do they know what I did?