“Move,” I said, when what I really wanted was to slap my daughter’s name out of her mouth.

She took a single step backward, not enough for me to open the car door. I knew what my mama would do if she were here. Swing that door wide and send the bitch flying. But I took a deep breath, held on to my temper through sheer force of will, hand tightening on my door frame until my knuckles screamed. “Move,” I repeated, fighting to keep my voice calm.

She moved, although I could see it pained her. Having me so close and all to herself and not able to cash in on it. “I’ll be at the press conference tomorrow,” she called, jogging alongside my car as I pulled out, tires chirping against the gravel of the parking lot. “Maybe by then you’ll have something to say.”

“Don’t count on it,” I muttered under my breath. Talking to reporters was for other people. People who could say the right things and make the right faces. That was never going to be me. Yet another thing I couldn’t give my daughter. But maybe, by the time this was over, I’d be able to give her something even better.

• • •

It had been with reluctance bordering on refusal that I’d agreed to participate in the press conference with Izzy’s parents. Land had called me into the station the day after I’d seen Jenny at the park, said the Logans had already agreed. At first I’d said no flat out, said I didn’t see what good it would do to have me there. Couldn’t Zach and Jenny handle it? If someone knew something, why would having me standing there make them any more likely to talk? They were either going to spill their secrets or they weren’t.

But Cal, as he often did, was the one to convince me, his voice patient long after Land had stormed away in disgust. Cal agreed with me that it might not matter, that it might make not a bit of difference to have my brokenhearted face showing up in living rooms across the entire country. But what if it did? he’d asked. And finally, the kicker: It’s something you can do for Junie. And I saw suddenly, firsthand, how good of a cop he was, sliding in under people’s defenses, talking them into doing things that arguably went against their best interests. So smooth and kind you didn’t realize you’d been played until it was too late.

And it was definitely too late now, with bright lights shining into my face and sweat slithering down my back underneath my cheap polyester dress. I wished I’d worn my jeans, but at the last minute I’d swung by the thrift store the next town over and grabbed the first dress I’d seen. Too big and an awful shade of brown. My choice was made all the worse by Jenny Logan, chic and sleek in a black pencil skirt and cream blouse, a single strand of pearls around her neck. The fact that they were probably fake made no difference. She looked the part and I didn’t, simple as that. She was someone people could sympathize with. I was the poor, dumb hick who probably deserved what happened to me. I knew people were thinking it because I’d already thought it myself.