“Well, it seems like someone is going to milk his fifteen minutes,” Grandma Gleason says.

“Has Amanda spoken with her mother? Have they seen each other? When will Amanda return to Florida?” a voice calls out.

“Yes, I can confirm that Amanda has spoken with her mother, who is currently on her way to Wisconsin. I do not have any details about when Amanda will be returning to Florida. As she’s a minor, we expect that she will move back with her mother.”

I stand up. Who the hell is this guy, and why does he think he has any say over me? He’s never met me. He’s never met my dad. He has absolutely nothing to do with the case. It was the people here who figured it out. Yet there he is, taking credit and acting like he has any idea what’s going on in my life.

My gratitude for the Gleasons grows even more. Sheriff Gleason could be doing this same thing. He could be posing for pictures and talking about Dad and me, yet he’s remained silent. He’s letting the court speak for itself.

I grab the remote and change the channel. But there he is. The sheriff’s face is on Fox News. I press another button and he’s on MSNBC. Another button, BBC World News.

“Sit down.” Grandma Gleason pats the seat next to her. I oblige since I don’t know what else to do with myself.

“Why did he say that they expect me to move back to Florida? How can someone who is a stranger make a decision like that for me? This is my home.” I find myself shaking. It’s difficult to breathe.

Grandma Gleason puts her hand on mine. “It’s unfair. But in the eyes of the law, you’re still a minor.”

“I’m eighteen!” No. God dammit, I’m not. Dad lied about my birthday. I’m only seventeen. “Okay, but I’ll be eighteen in … Do you happen to know when my official birthday is?”

“January twenty-fourth.”

My mind is reeling. “Okay, I’ll be an adult at the end of next month. That’s what? Six weeks? Seven weeks?”

She nods. “Brian is seeing what he can do. But your mother is set on you moving back to Florida with her.”

“What?”

Just when I think there’s no possible way things could get any worse.

“No. No,” I say forcefully, as if by protesting enough I can make this all go away. “I’m not going anywhere with her. She can’t make me.”

“You’ve spoken with your mother?”

“Yes, we talked for like ten minutes.”

“And?”

“Well, at no point did she drop that bomb. How convenient.” I fold my arms.

“But how was it?”