“Amber’s file said her dad was doing something she had to keep from Bronte. And I didn’t have time to look at the others, but you said several deputies are on that list. This is a game-changer. We can’t trust the police.”

“You can’t tell Bronte and Amber, either,” Ben says. “I know you trust them, but this is big. Amber would protect her dad, and Bronte her brother. Or herself.”

I shake my head. “Bronte and Amber both have alibis.” I have trouble believing in some grand murder conspiracy involving my friends—well, those friends—but the note next to Gabriel itches at me. Doing something shady for money. Where was he during halftime?

My phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Maura, but I’m confused. It’s like a drunk panda hit Send.

Cecil come home. Suzanne I’m accidental.

I hand my phone to Ben to see if he can decipher it. His eyebrows rise above the rim of his glasses.

“Wow, you got an actual, real-deal Maura text. That right there is the result of Maura trying to figure out a smartphone and some rogue autocorrect. But…I think Suzanne was in an accident.”

A ding signals a text for Ben as well.

“And she needs me to drive her to the hospital. Shit. Let’s go now. I’ll take you home.”

There’s a pit in my stomach that sprouts in the car and takes root once we’re home. I rush up the front steps to the Victorian mansion.

“You stay here, sweetheart,” Maura says to me as soon as we walk in the door, leaving no room for protest. “It’s a school night, and I don’t know how long I’ll be at the hospital.” She’s already got her coat on and her purse, makes a twirling gesture with her hand, and Ben goes right back out onto the porch on cue.

“Do they know what happened? Is Suzanne okay?”

“They wouldn’t tell me much, but it appears her brakes failed. She’s in pretty bad shape, but don’t worry.”

That’s it. Maura pats me on the arm reassuringly, an empty gesture.

“Her brakes…failed?”

“That’s what the sheriff said. I really must go.” She pecks me on the cheek. “There’s food in the fridge. Don’t wait up.”

I couldn’t eat if I tried; my stomach churns. Suzanne was supposed to pick me up from therapy. I was meant to be in that car.

And brakes don’t just fail. At least that’s what movies and TV have taught me. I Google it and find that 5 percent of car accidents each year are due to brake failure. Over three hundred thousand. I don’t know if that makes me feel better.

I trudge, shell-shocked, up the stairs, hesitate on the third-floor landing. My mom’s room calls to me.