“Oh, Parker. My family filed a wrongful death suit, and it, it went nowhere. We tried to talk to news stations, papers, politicians⁠—”

“W-who?” I ask. “Who did you reach out to?”

Abby’s eyes drift to the side. “The governor at the time. A few state senators. A congressman who represented the district. There was a bill he wanted to move forward and it didn’t go anywhere.”

I pull out my phone and search for the county Horizons falls under. And then I search the congressional representative.

Camden Holdings.

“There was no record of her being sick at that place, none. Not a stupid note or anything. And no one would come forth and say otherwise.” Abby tries to smile. “No one until now.”

I’m already running in my head. But like Mr. Foller said, I always had a skewed perception of reality. With my hands balled into fists, I squeeze tight so the blunt end of my nail digs into the flesh of my palm. I feel the pain. This is real.

Slowly, I rise, and Abby does too. “I think I should talk to your lawyer.”

* * *

“Yes,” I say with a sigh to the lawyer on the phone. “I’m Candice and Walter Montgomery’s daughter.”

I’m the president’s daughter. And I was put in that place.

He feeds me details of what he can, why Abby’s family lost the suit, why they decided not to appeal it. “You have to understand that these kinds of investigations are long and costly. They haven’t been in the position financially to move forward with the same evidence on appeal and have it go nowhere.”

“I want to help. I’ll pay you on their behalf, no matter how much it costs. And,” I add, “I’ll testify.”

I don’t expect his hesitancy. “It’s best if you start from the beginning.”

So I do. I hang up and rush into my room, digging for the duffle that holds the cookie tin I had stashed in the back of my closet when my things from Atlanta arrived, and carry it with me back to Fitz’s den where I clear off what I can of the desk, and take out some fresh printer paper. I search online for a calendar of the year I turned seventeen. On the top of a page, I write down day one and the date. The first anniversary of Honey’s death, and then I put both hands on the box. For the first time in over a decade, I open it and smile.

And I write.