I’m not sure how to bring him up. If I should bring it up. I could mention the party and leave it at that. She’d have questions, but not nearly as many as if I admitted to why I’m wanting to go.

The house phone rings. Sydney pauses the movie and stands. “It’s probably spam, but I’ll check it and make some popcorn. Want any?”

“Sure. I’ll help.”

I toss the blanket off and stand, leaving Lily sleeping on the couch. I’m antsy, trying to decide what to say to her. Doing something is better than sitting and stewing. Thinking and overthinking.

I head into the pantry and grab the box of microwave popcorn. Sydney picks up the phone as I pop it inside and start the timer.

When I turn around, Sydney is still on the phone. “…my phone died,” she’s saying. “I didn’t know you’d want to talk.”

Her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink as she glances at me, mouthing Graham. I nod and smile, right as there’s a knock on the front door.

I’ll get it, I mouth back, walking out of the kitchen and through the living room—couch still a jumble of blankets—toward the front door.

I glance through the peephole, and it feels like a heavy stone was just dropped in my stomach. I don’t know who I considered as options for people standing on the front porch, but two uniformed police officers were not on the list. Two grim uniformed police officers. I’ve never seen an upbeat cop, though. Not even when members of Pembrook’s police force have come to school for demonstrations or talks. They’re always serious and stoic. Maybe you have to be whenever you’re on duty in that sort of career field. Where you have to witness horrible things. Share horrible news.

My hands are shaking as I work to undo the deadbolt and turn the knob. The police don’t show up—without you calling—to deliver good news. It’s a universally dreaded sight.

I manage to get the door open, letting in whoosh of cold air that helps me stay in this moment instead of my mind racing with terrifying possibilities.

“Miss Adams?”

I clear my throat, worried no sound will come out otherwise. “Um, no. I’m a neighbor. A friend.”

One of the officers nods. “Is there anyone home related to a Joseph Adams?”

For an awful stretch of seconds, I thought they were here because of Holden. The rush of relief is dizzying, closely followed by the worry something is still wrong.

“Yes. I’ll…I’ll get her.”

I go to close the door, then think better of it. I leave it half-open as I spin and sprint toward the kitchen.

Sydney is leaning against the counter, still talking on the phone.

“Sydney,” I hiss. “Sydney.”