I spread the paper out and scanned the first story. It revealed less than I knew and relied on a lot of “sources say” and “police aren’t sure.” I felt some relief that I hadn’t been mentioned, but that lasted about one minute. In the second story, which detailed the circumstances of Aaron’s arrest in greater detail, I saw my name. “Ryan Francis, local PR executive and small-business owner.” While it withheld many of the details—it didn’t mention my presence in Jennifer’s house the night she had died—it did say that the potential crimes being investigated stemmed partially from an “alcohol-involved accident during college.” And it made sure to tell the readers that additional charges could be filed against all of the men, including Blake and me.

I’d turned my phone off when I came home from getting Amanda, hoping to shut the world out so we could sleep. But something compelled me to reach for it. I went down the hall to my office, noticed the space on the desk where my laptop should have been resting, and picked up the phone. Amanda appeared in the doorway right behind me.

“Ryan, maybe don’t . . .”

But I’d already seen. Text after text after text. And calls and voice mails. I scanned the first few.

Hey, man . . .

Is this you?

Do you need anything?

Are they serious?

I looked away, my face burning.

Amanda took a deep breath in the doorway. She pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. “The same thing happened on my phone. And Facebook and Snapchat too. I thought you might want to avoid that for a while.”

“I thought people didn’t read the newspaper anymore. Do we know the only people who subscribe?”

“Well, you know the newspaper reporters Tweet all their stories. And the paper shares its stories on Facebook. At least people care,” she said. “We have a lot of friends offering support.”

“It’s ghoulish,” I said. “They just want prurient details. They want a glimpse of the disaster.”

Amanda remained quiet, but she wore a knowing look.

“What?” I asked.

“Look, Ryan, live by social media, die by it. We put a lot of our lives on there, so naturally people think they can ask whatever they want. It happens.”

“Just what I need to hear. Logic.”

She came across the room and took me by the hand, the hand that didn’t hold the phone. “Come on out to the kitchen. We can talk. You know, face-to-face like human beings used to. You can respond to those later. Or ignore them all. You don’t have to jump every time that thing chimes. None of us do.”

“Sure.”

But I made the mistake of taking one more glance at the screen. Another text popped up.

I know you’re pissed and I get it. But lets talk sometime.

“Crap,” I said.

“What?”

“Blake. Of all the nerve . . .”