But Marland had not cried out. Marland had faced this person and gotten knifed. Or had been grabbed from behind and knifed, although to Julia, well versed in crime shows on streaming channels, that seemed a harder sell.

Marland knew his killer. He had not been surprised to see him. Maybe they had planned together to get the phone from Julia and then kill her. But the killer turned on Marland and left Julia holding the knife…

…which had been in her family’s kitchen. A fancy black blade, not silver-colored like most blades. They’d had the knives for a few years. But that meant that whoever got the knife had had access to their house. It would take only a second to hide the knife, and if it wasn’t in the rack, one would assume it was in the dishwasher. It wouldn’t be missed right away.

Who’d been there?

Ned. Gordon. Mike. Peter. Any of the neighbors who had brought food or comfort.

Her parents. Grant.

Even Danielle.

But the world was full of knives. You only took one from a house when you wanted to frame someone. So someone had known she was talking with Marland, knew she would talk again with him, and knew she had access to the abandoned house.

That was Ned. No one else knew, except her mom.

And Gordon. If Ned had told him everything.

What would Gordon do to protect his son? Kill the man who could link his son to the drug ring? Blame the girl who stood on the edge of it? Marland had been pressuring her to join; was that the only reason?

Had Gordon put Marland up to this and then killed him, solving two problems with one blow?

The door to her room opens. A woman she hasn’t seen before enters. Pretty, in her thirties, Julia guesses. She wears a paramedic uniform.

“Hello,” the woman says. She smiles, checks a clipboard. “Julia Pollitt?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. They have you listed for…a mild sedative.” She has a slight, odd accent.

“Who does? I haven’t seen a doctor.”

“It was ordered, sweetie. You want left arm or right arm?”

“I don’t want it at all. I want to see my mom.”

“She’ll be here later.” The paramedic steps forward; she already holds the syringe. “Left or right arm?”

“I don’t want it!” Now Julia’s voice rises.

“I understand,” the paramedic says. “If you refuse it and I have to call the guards to hold you down, you get a disciplinary mark. Loss of privileges.”

For a moment Julia thinks a shot to make her sleepy sounds great—numb this awful experience. But the thought passes. “I want my lawyer here. I do not want to be medicated.”