“Call in your tips,” I said. “Talk to the cops. Do all that. And maybe it will help. But I doubt it.” I paused, sucked in a shaky breath. I was smart enough to know the anger zinging through my blood like a fast-acting poison was probably misplaced grief, but I didn’t care. It felt good. Felt good to feel something that would potentially hurt someone else instead of harming me. “But that doesn’t mean whoever did this should be resting easy, thinking they’re going to get away scot-free.” I pointed out at the cameras, stabbing my finger into the air. “Because I’m going to find you, you sick fuck. And I’m going to tear you apart.”

You could practically taste the shock in the air, a split second when no one moved or spoke, and then it was chaos—cameras clicking, reporters shouting questions, flashes exploding in my face. I caught glimpses between the bursts of light. Jenny staring at me like she’d never seen me before, eyes wide. Louise, still as stone while tears tracked down her cheeks. Cal’s hand scrubbing at his tired, defeated face. The reporter from the laundromat, cheeks flushed, probably kicking herself all over again that she hadn’t gotten me to talk when she’d had the chance. And Land, his forehead mottled deep red as he gripped my arm, pretending to help me stand but really digging his fingers into my skin, bone biting into tendon.

“What the hell was that?” he said, back turned to the crowd. I stared up at him, and something in his face cracked, softened for a moment. “Jesus, Eve.” He sighed. “How was that supposed to help? We’re trying to get people to have sympathy for you, for your situation. Not turn off their televisions because you scare the shit out of them.”

I thought about all the press conferences I’d seen over the years, parents trotted out for missing kids, killed kids, abused kids. Everyone feels sorry for those parents, those mothers, until they don’t. Until the mothers don’t cry enough or cry too much. Until the mothers are too put-together or not put-together enough. Until the mothers are angry. Because that’s the one thing women are never, ever allowed to be. We can be sad, distraught, confused, pleading, forgiving. But not furious. Fury is reserved for other people. The worst thing you can be is an angry woman, an angry mother.

But I was angry and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. I didn’t care what people said about me. And if Land actually thought any of this spectacle would make a difference in finding out the truth about who killed Junie and Izzy, then he was even dumber than I thought.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” I said, ripping out of his grasp and lurching backward.

Land’s mouth dropped open, but I was already turning away, my gaze skipping to the back of the room. My mama was still leaning against the wall, arms still crossed, eyes still cold. But now, she was smiling.