Saturday night, the house had felt like a war zone. At first, they’d gone to different rooms, doors closed, only silence beyond. She’d finally crept out at seven to make dinner, hoping baked chicken and mashed potatoes—her father’s favorite—would be enough to pull him out of his study.

But she’d knocked, and he’d answered, and he’d told her to feed Simon and go to bed.

Then he’d come back out, for one reason only: to confiscate her cell phone.

Sunday was worse, only because her father showed his face. Every word was clipped, every motion sharp. Layne expected him to yell, to ground her, to issue restrictions. But he didn’t mention Gabriel. He barely spoke to Simon—not like there was any change there.

She’d been relieved when a client called with an emergency, and her father had to leave.

But the tension in the house had made her completely forget the events of Friday night. Since she didn’t have her backpack, she turned on the computer and loaded her e-mail, hoping to e-mail a classmate to get the weekend assignment for Honors English.

And then she’d been shocked by the onslaught.

At first, she thought her account had been hacked. She had over fifty e-mails.

Then she’d started recognizing the names of fellow students. Taylor. Heather. A few others, all from that crowd.

Her throat still felt tight, thinking about it. She’d clicked on one.

It was a picture of her, pinned on that chaise lounge, but the photo had been doctored. Now it looked like she was completely naked.

Bad enough. But the next one was from Ryan Stacey. The subject line said, Bring back memories?

She expected another dirty picture, but it was a link to a newspaper article about a fire Saturday night, at some town house community across town. Four homes, destroyed. Almost everyone had gotten out without injuries, but a young woman had been trapped and badly burned before she was rescued.

There was a picture.

Layne clicked for the next e-mail, before her brain could register the damage.

The next e-mail had obviously been passed around before coming to her account, because she had to scroll through numerous LOLs before getting to another photo of herself on the chaise lounge. But she was on fire, her face a Photoshopped image of a charred dog’s head.

And in the e-mail chain, a message from Kara, saying how hysterical it was.

Layne had yanked the computer plug out of the wall.

And then she’d run to the bathroom to throw up.

The horse sidestepped away from the brush, and Layne snapped back to the present. She’d been pressing too hard.

She abandoned the currycomb for a bristle brush, flicking the dirt and loose hairs into the aisle, making the animal’s red coat truly shine.