“Who? Bo?”

“Yes.”

“Stop. He’s a sub—and a great tutor. He’s just super amazing.” She looks up quickly. “We’re just friends. He also manages the hardware store, where I get my art supplies.”

Two things rankle me. I didn’t know Betsy had a super amazing, handsome tutor. And teachers and students aren’t supposed to be “friends.” I could make a huge fuss about this inappropriate something here. But I have other fish to fry, so to speak. Still, it’s bothersome. Surely they must have communicated by phone or text at some point, if only even to change the time of a tutoring session?

I say, “Hmm. Okay. I just didn’t know about him. You’ve never mentioned his name.” They must not communicate outside of school, because I’d know. Wouldn’t I? Do they use smoke signals? Morse code? I’ve been missing something. It reminds me of the time Mary discovered the listening device in her bedroom. She was so smart, so mad at me. I swore it was for her own protection as I watched her smash it with a hammer. I don’t have a bug in Betsy’s room, not after that fiasco. But still, I should know about Bo.

“You don’t know anything about me, Mom.” Betsy slaps red paint onto the paper.

Clearly. “Want to tell me about you two?”

“Not really.”

“You realize he could get in big trouble for hanging out with you, don’t you? I mean, if someone were to file a complaint about it.” I like swirling the black paint on the paper, thick, dark.

“We aren’t hanging out. He’s a tutor.” Betsy stops painting and stares at me.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not, dear. It’s just that I care so much about you. I just want the very best for you.” And that wouldn’t include the assistant manager of a hardware store. Forget the fact he’s a teacher. None of it will matter in a couple of days, anyway, not if everything goes as it should.

“Right. Well, what I want to do is finish this stupid backdrop. And I’d like your word that you won’t say anything to anyone about Bo, because there’s nothing to talk about. He’s my tutor. End of story. Okay?” Betsy holds the paintbrush dripping in red paint. It reminds me of the new painting hanging in her room, the bleeding heart.

“Sure, honey, of course.” I will be agreeable now. I need to process this new and important information. To change the subject I say, “I’m meeting with Detective Branson at noon.” I grab a different paintbrush and dip it into the silver paint. This is sort of fun, cathartic. “I plan to get Mary’s case reopened.”