His companion chuckled, too. It wasn’t a convincing sound. The two men weren’t even smiling.

Neither was Caleb. He leaned past Maggie to grab a full glass and hurled the beer in the thick-necked guy’s face.

He jumped off his seat, sputtering.

“You’re an asshole,” Caleb said. At the same time, a big man flew out of the kitchen.

Linnie’s laughter was a surprised trill. “Our drinks are on the house, and now your drink is on you.” She linked Maggie’s arm with her own. “Let’s go.” She pulled on Caleb’s jacket sleeve.

But he shook his head, visibly furious, his glare fixed on the dripping jerk.

The heavyset man, presumably the manager, nervously smoothed the sides of his head and sidled between Caleb and the soaked man.

Patrons watched out of the corners of their eyes. “Hotline Bling” replaced Taylor Swift. The song’s bitterness sounded off, the wrong soundtrack to accompany the manager’s squeaked apology and the sudden laughter of a group entering the restaurant.

Maggie just wanted to leave. She turned her back on the guy who’d made the ugly joke. He disgusted her. How could he not see that she’d cried rape because six men had raped her? One of those rapists had even admitted as much. The way Matt Dawson looked during the hearing returned to her—bent over, hands on the back of his head, weeping and nodding and acknowledging the truth in a broken voice. So did the terror and the sickness she’d experienced sitting in his presence.

She shakily reached into the pocket of her jacket for one of the twenty-dollar bills her dad had given her and set it on the bar. “Caleb.” She grazed his shoulder. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Linnie answered for him.

Red with anger, Caleb finally spun away from the jerk, who was still standing by the bar, angrily mopping his wet hair with a sleeve.

The manager breathed a sigh of relief and sat heavily on a stool.

They walked single file toward the door. The people they passed looked everywhere—the plates of cooling burgers and fries, their hands, the floor—except at them. Only one person, a bespectacled, brown-haired woman around Maggie’s age, didn’t avoid eye contact. In a corner booth, she sat with her family. Her gaze was sympathetic.

Maggie appreciated the girl’s kind expression. It gave her the courage to walk with her head up and reminded her that not the entire population of Carlton, Vermont, was horrible. For every creep who’d lashed out at Maggie with a tweet, remark, or post, there had been a decent person who’d supported her. Maggie needed to remember that.

It was so hard to remember that.