Oh shit. She shouldn’t have pushed. It was always a mistake. Not wanting to upset Ella further, Clare did as she was told. If she went along, sometimes her mother would stay calm and the episode might pass quicker. “Okay, Mom. I’m sitting. And I’m sorry.”

“Listen to me.” Ella leaned in close. “You are not to sign anything. Do you hear me? Nothing legal, nothing confessional. They don’t have anything. I know it. I was so careful, Clare.” Her mother shook her head and looked like she might start crying. “So careful. I have no idea how they suspect…unless someone from the party saw you leaving? Did someone else see you?” She squeezed Clare’s hands tighter. “Think, Clare. Could someone have seen you get in the truck?”

Time stopped. Clare stared back into her mother’s aged and frantic expression. Her heart beat hard and heavy in her head. Her mother was lost in time, and she’d dragged Clare along with her. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

“I know you didn’t mean it, honey. It was a horrible accident. But you have to listen to me now because they’re not going to see it that way. Because you were drinking and that poor boy—”

Clare pulled her hands away from her mother’s and stood up. Her mother reached for her again. Clare took a step back.

“Who approached you? Was it Joe? Teddy? Did Adam’s parents come to you? We have to consider that they may not have any evidence. They may only be trying to get you to slip up.”

“What do you mean, you were so careful? What did you do?” Clare asked her.

“I found you. I thank God every night that it was me. And I saw Adam’s truck turned over in the ditch and—” Ella choked on her own words. “I just knew you’d be in there. And I prayed for you to please, please don’t be dead.” Tears ran down Ella’s face. “You can’t know—”

“What did you do!” Clare screamed at her mother.

“I moved you…”

Clare waited for her mother to finish saying it, out loud.

“From the driver’s side, so nobody else would know—”

“That I was driving,” Clare whispered.

“It was an accident,” Ella cried.

Clare turned around and faced the wall. Her hands clutched fistfuls of hair on either side of her head. She stared into the oil painting in front of her, a mahogany framed replica of Monet’s The Japanese Footbridge. She reached out and placed her palm flat against the painting’s center, barely keeping herself from grabbing it and ripping it from the wall.

“Clare, I know this is upsetting, but you need to listen to me now. We need to be smart.”