I cling to her and let myself cry and cry and cry. I must be really stupid, but it hadn’t occurred to me that the police would actually take Mr. Boyce in for questioning. I thought they’d come to his house, ask a few questions, and leave. I never imagined that the local news would be there, sticking cameras in his face, yelling questions at him.

What if the police think he really did it? What if they put him in jail—all because of Skylar and me and our stupid detective game? I’m in tears, and Mom is trying to comfort me.

I should tell her that Detective Klein is coming. I should prepare her. I should confess, but I can’t. Maybe they won’t come, I tell myself, maybe after their talk with Mr. Boyce, they won’t need statements from Skylar and me. He’ll have an alibi, they’ll see he’s innocent. They won’t tell him who blabbed about Ms. Sullivan and him.

“Greg wants to meet us for dinner at Gepetto’s,” Mom says. “Are you up for that?”

I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

She pulls out her cell phone and texts Greg. Just as she puts her phone down, the landline rings. We’re practically the only people I know who still have one, but Mom insists that we need a backup in case of a power failure.

She answers. “Yes, this is Cathy Dawson. Yes, that’s correct, Abbi is my daughter.”

There’s a slight pause. “No, she hasn’t told me. Seven o’clock. Yes, that will be fine. Thank you.”

She looks at the receiver as if she wants to say more, ask some questions maybe, but I hear the dial tone. She puts the phone down gently, as if she’s afraid of it.

“Abbi,” she says. “What’s this about? Why do the police want to talk to you? What can you tell them about Ms. Sullivan’s death?”

She looks at me as if a couple of minutes on the phone have turned me into a stranger.

“Don’t be mad,” I beg. “Don’t be mad, please don’t hate me.”

Her face is serious, her voice low. “No matter what it’s about, Abbi, I won’t hate you, but I can’t guarantee I won’t be mad.”

Between sobs, I tell her about the tree house and what we saw and how Mr. Boyce acted at his house. I tell her about going to the police. I leave out the worst part. Even Detective Klein doesn’t know what happened today.

She stares at me as if she can’t speak or move. I can’t tell if she’s angry or shocked.

“I’m sorry.” I hear the whine in my voice. I sound like I’m six years old and apologizing for crossing the street without permission.