I pretend to gasp for air. I keep my head down and cover my face with my hand. Before I know it, we’re outside, around the corner from the gym. We sit on the grass. I pull my knees to my chest, cover my face with my hands.

I’m angry. Very angry. I breathe in, breathe out. There is nothing more to do or say. My daughter called me a monster. Betsy has threatened me, and I her.

I don’t know how long we sit there in the grass but Sam arrives.

Sam says, “Hey, Betsy. Got here as fast as I could.”

I don’t like the way Sam is looking at my devious daughter. He’s my knight, not hers. “Thank goodness you’re here,” I say so he’ll focus on me.

Betsy touches his arm. “Thanks again for getting here so fast. Sorry you had to come retrieve her. Take her home, okay? No visitors. She’s a mess.”

“No problem,” Sam says. I feel the air shift beside me as Betsy walks away.

Sam looks down at me in the wake of Betsy’s departure. “You okay, Mrs. H.?”

I see the kindness in his eyes. Feel his solid presence. I hope she didn’t tell him any lies about me. He wouldn’t believe her. Nobody believes teenagers. “Now I am. Now that you’re here. Betsy’s furious with me, as usual.”

“Moms and daughters, they say it’s tough.” Sam helps me stand and we walk to the Prius. He opens the back passenger-side door. “Straight home, then?”

Mom and daughter relationships are more than tough, Sam. Especially when daughters don’t obey. Betsy will be brought under control, one way or another. I slide in, and before he can close the door I say, “No, drive me to the police station, please.”

12

11:15 a.m.

Detective Alan Branson hasn’t changed much in the past year.

We’re sitting across from each other in his tiny office. I’m glad he hadn’t left yet to drive to my house even though I bet he’d rather have meetings anywhere but this dingy place. I sit across the beat-up cheap wood desk and smile, waiting as he reads my evidence.

His wrinkled brow is locked in a frown, his thinning hair glued to his head with gel. His green eyes tilt down at the sides, as if his cheeks no longer bother to hold up their end of the deal. He’s seen too much, I guess, to ever smile. He slides my letter across the desk in my direction. I beam with excitement.

“What do you want me to do with this, Mrs. Harris?” He speaks slowly, like I’m a child.