“Hi, Micah, this is Dawn Blakely with the Detroit Free Press. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

My gut ices over as heat floods my face. What the hell?

“How did you get this number?”

“Google. Micah, your father’s parole hearing will be in a few weeks. How do you feel about his chances of getting out of prison?”

I let the loop of Cash’s leash slide up my arm so that my hand is free to rake through my damp hair. “No comment,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Will you be attending your father’s hearing, Micah?”

“No comment.”

“It’s rumored that several of your father’s accusers plan to make an appearance. Are you planning to confront the women in his defense?”

“What?” I’m stopped short. “No! I was a kid when this happened. Why would I confront anyone?”

“At the last trial, you said you believed your father.”

“I was thirteen. He’s my dad. Of course I wanted to believe him.”

“Do you think the families deserve restitution for what was stolen from them by your father?”

“Of course, but—”

“According to the trial transcripts from five years ago, your mother planned to file bankruptcy.”

My head is spinning. “Sh-she did.” I swallow. “We lost everything. Just like those families. I wish they could be paid back, but we don’t have the money. He had it. He never gave it to us.”

“You don’t think they should get restitution, then.”

“I don’t think anything,” I say. “Listen, I’m not sure where you got this number, but—”

“Google,” she repeats.

“Fine, whatever.” My hand waves wildly in the air in front of me, and Cash hops around my feet, impatient, tangling me in his leash. “I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to talk to you about legal things, and since I was barely thirteen when this all went down, I’m not a very credible source. So, no, I don’t plan to be at the hearing, and I don’t plan to defend my father, and I’m not responsible for the harm done to those families. Please leave us alone.”

I hang up with a stab of my finger and release a slow, shaky breath. My phone lights up instantly with messages from my mom and Brian. There’s another text from my sister Rachel telling me to come home ASAP and three emails from news sites in my in-box.

What the hell happened?

I sprint home, which Cash takes as some sort of challenge. My mom is watching from the screen door when we run up, and before she can panic, I wave her off.

“I’ll be right down. Let me shower first, okay?”