After her Jeep pulls away, I stand a moment longer, looking at Bree’s window. The music shuts off. In time, a silhouette forms, passing the shade once or twice before sinking to half height, motionless. Bree is sitting on the edge of her bed the way we did the other night, in her room of cream and slate blue, maybe with a book in front of her, unread.

“Tell me about Gavin Cotswold.”

It’s the first thing I say to Bree at the bus stop Thursday morning. She and Hazel weren’t in school yesterday; taking a mental health day, maybe. Bree doesn’t look destroyed or anything—actually, not a trace of Tuesday night’s argument shows on her face—and I want to cover my own guilt over watching, listening, doing nothing. I lay in bed for a long time after her mom left, torn between going next door to make sure Bree was okay and respecting her five-mile perimeter of personal space. But the next morning, I knew: if it were me, I would’ve appreciated the pop-in. Guess I’m out of practice with this friendship thing. Before I left for the bus stop this morning, I did a quick search for Nica Pleck on my followers lists. She has a different profile pic now, different haircut. Same smile. I tried to remember exactly how it felt, having somebody I spent almost every day with, when being a bestie was once second nature for me.

Now, at my words, Sage stops eating her Pop-Tart and glances at Hazel, who’s being allowed closer to us than usual. Hazel’s zipped into a pink insulated jacket, completely absorbed in Toy Blast on her phone. She’s the proof of Tuesday night’s argument: tired eyes, no attempt at her usual starter makeup.

“It’s all online,” Bree says, watching a chip bag blow around the posts of the Affordable Family Housing sign like a half-blind dog looking for a place to lift its leg.

“I’d rather hear it from you. That way I know it’s not bullshit.”

Bree glances at her sister. “Hazel, cover your ears.”

“But I already—”

“Cover.” Hazel sighs, puts her phone away, and obeys, glancing around to see who’s staring. “Did you look him up?”

“I watched, like, half a video.”

“He lived here,” Sage says musingly. “Unit Three. Right across the street from me.” She wears a navy-blue peacoat in the morning chill, with a snowflake-patterned trapper cap, scarf, and mitten set that would make me look like a preschooler; Sage rocks it like a model in an Abercrombie ad. “Pretty sure if you look up ‘hot mess,’ there’s a pic of Gavin. Sad.”