“Can I drive myself?” I asked. Something about sitting in the back of a police cruiser seemed awfully fated.

“It’s probably best that you both ride with me. Don’t worry—I don’t mind bringing you back.” His finality gave me no choice.

He escorted us to the police station in silence. I held Aria’s hand the whole way, and she clutched mine like it was a lifeline. When he asked us to sit down, we weren’t offered coffee or soda this time, which told me it was worse than I thought.

The detective held a picture out as he sat down.

“Know what this is?” he asked.

I did, but I didn’t want to say. It was Aria’s bag of pot. I warned her with a look not to speak.

“No.”

“We found it in Aria’s drawer. Aria, I’m sure you know what this is, right?”

She shifted rigidly, picking at the chipped red paint on her fingernails. “A friend asked me to hold it for him.” Liar. The giveaway was all over her face.

“It’s foxglove, a poisonous herb that when ingested can cause irregular heart function. Even death. Any idea why your friend would ask you to hold on to a poisonous herb?”

“No, sir,” she answered. Still peeling tiny red curls of nail polish. Still lying.

So it wasn’t marijuana. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Had my sweet, innocent girl poisoned her father? And who had given it to her?

“Detective, I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.” I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say, but I needed to say something. “Aria would never hurt her father. It can’t be what it looks like.”

“We’ve put a rush on the toxicology report, Mrs. Fischer,” he growled, then turned to Aria. “And you better have a damn good explanation for why this was in your drawer.”

Chapter 40

Robin

TUESDAY MORNING

I sucked at apologies. It might have been due to a bad combination of my father’s pride with my mother’s feistiness, but when it came to saying those two simple words, it was like pulling teeth to push them past my lips: I’m sorry.

Today was the first time it came easily. Friends had a way of taking a wrecking ball to those walls we fashioned brick by brick. Especially friends who were hurting more than you. I thought my mire was deep, until I waded in hers and sank.

Mackenzie answered the door of her hotel room looking like death warmed over. Her hair was limp and unwashed, and a sweatshirt and sweatpants hung on her bony frame. I’d never seen her look so disheveled . . . and skinny. Depression and death—the latest weight-loss fad.