I could ask her about the bracelet again. But without my dad alive to corroborate Annie’s ignorance of its significance, everything I say will be conjecture. Are Beth and I are so saturated in our own suspicions that we’ve become the type of people who can’t see the good in anyone? Who immediately draw conclusions based on almost no evidence?

That’s what it seems like now, with Anneliese’s arms around me, and I feel that tightening in my chest again, a telltale throbbing at my temples like I’m about to cry.

“I’m so sorry. I feel like such an idiot.” I bury my face into her shoulder, careful not to get any wayward tears onto the cotton fabric. I erase a thought about finding Georgia, to exonerate her. Why would she want to ever hear another word about that wretched bracelet again?

Annie wraps me in a full-blown hug and kisses my temple. “I’m not going to say I’m not frustrated that it would even cross your mind to think those things about me. But I love you, so I’m going to forgive you. We can forget this conversation ever happened, okay? I won’t even mention the art class again, if you want to continue taking it.”

I sit up and wipe my eyes, ashamed and guilty. “No, it’s okay. I can drop it if you’d rather I practice over here. I’m lucky to have someone who even cares enough to set something like that up.” She smiles back at me, and I know I’ve said the right thing.

I can always see Gavin, even Beth, at another time. I can make room for all of them in my life, even if they don’t trust each other. And who knows, maybe down the line we can all spend time together. Beth can learn to let Anneliese and all her soft love in, without being so skeptical of anyone with so much innate goodness. I grin at the thought.

We hug some more, and she dismisses my apologies, before saying she’s due at a tutoring job in an hour.

“Do you mind if I take a nap? I can do it right here,” I ask. She acquiesces, and I lie down, stretching my legs, sleep smothering me after a restless night.

28

February 1997

Of course, there’s crying. And screaming. It’s the loudest, the whiniest, the shrillest that Suzy has ever emitted. She’s tear-streaked for hours. Her face like a peach, bruised red and pink by the strain of all those cries.

Even Mrs. Keller is called to action. She hobbles around the house with her cane, calling out the cat’s name, looking behind couches, under chairs, behind the cereal boxes shelved in the pantry. She gets exhausted after a few rooms, goes back to bed.