I’d spent the last hour balancing out the pros and cons of explaining to Owen what I saw Ryan doing to our little girl. As much as I wanted to protect this secret from getting out and spreading like wildfire, it wasn’t my secret to protect. It wasn’t even Aria’s secret, because she had no idea it happened. The truth was locked and sealed. Hidden in fog, all she seemed to remember was watching some stupid science-fiction movie with Ryan, both of them drinking on the sly and getting silly and “a little” flirtatious, and waking up hungover. She couldn’t recall how she got home, then woke up vowing never to drink again. Well, that was one good thing at least. It only made her angry whenever I mentioned Sunday night. I was lucky I had gotten the information out of her that I did.

But was she being honest with me? Kids were notorious liars when they thought they’d get in trouble. Part of me wished I knew the truth, but the other part preferred the ignorance. I banished this pointless line of reasoning before it unspooled. To tell or not tell Owen—this should be my focus.

One thing about that fateful night nagged at me. Some pain . . . and bleeding. It had to have been her first time. Ryan had taken her virginity. How could she ever trust a boy again after what her friend of fifteen years did to her? How could she ever overcome this? It wasn’t my cross to bear, but it sure felt heavy on my shoulders.

Telling Owen was a last resort. With Owen came ven-geance. With vengeance came publicity. And right now, Aria seemed blissfully unaware of how close her life was to being shattered. If she never found out what really happened, I hoped she could move on to be healthy, happy, whole. But if I told her . . . what would be left of her? No mother should ever be faced with this heartbreaking choice. And yet it was all I could think about.

Up ahead, my two-story brick house came into view, the windows glowing against the evening’s gray descent. I rolled up to the driveway, first noticing the unfamiliar mud-brown Honda heap parked at the edge of my lawn. Eaten away by rust along one side, the door on the driver’s side was painted a garish green in contrast with the rest of the hooptie’s hen-turd brown, like my mamma used to say. Next I saw who it belonged to—the woman dashing across my lawn toward it. I jumped out of my car.

“Excuse me, do you need something?” I called out.

She only ran faster as I jogged over to her. I couldn’t get a good look at her face, but she was a scrawny little thing with mousy brown hair.

A moment later her tires screeched across the pavement as she nearly ran me over.