I’d forgotten to charge my cell phone overnight. The dead device would likely be the cost of my bail, so I dug through the pile of belongings closest to my bed and grabbed it as my offering. Piles of clothes, papers, empty bowls, cups, and other random things populated my bedroom floor. My mom always got on my case about cleaning. I liked the mess. Occasionally, I’d shift it around into more visually appealing piles for her, but ridding myself of it entirely meant doing hard work for a temporary outcome. The mess would eventually return. Best to leave it be.

Aidy tried her best to sidestep everything, tripping over herself to follow me out of my room and down the hallway into Dad’s office. Always his office. To communicate that this was official business.

Dad sat in his old leather chair, like old times, leaning into the rickety back that was sure to someday break under such undue stress. He had his hands folded across his lap and an unreadable expression on his face. Mom stood beside him with the pads of her fingers pressed into the desk. They exchanged a look as we walked in, Mom twisting her wedding ring around her finger while Dad raised his eyebrows.

“Hi, girls,” he started. “I’d say morning, but you slept right through that.”

I faked a laugh to ease the tension. “I was pretty tired.”

“We’ll make this short,” Dad assured.

“I’m not going to fall asleep during this, I promise.”

He didn’t seem to get the joke. He had a look of concentration I recognized in myself sometimes, like when I hadn’t studied for a test but needed to come up with an answer to something I swear I’d never been taught.

“Your dad and I spent a lot of time talking about the best course of action for today,” Mom interjected. “Olivia, your behavior at the memorial was inexcusable.” As she went over the details, I handed over my cell phone in lieu of a response. She took it but did not accept it as full payment. “Ms. DeVeau fell apart after you went running out. I know you’re young, but you need to try and understand what that woman’s been through.”

I understood pretty perfectly.

“As soon as we’re done here, you’ll get dressed and walk over to her house and apologize,” she said.

Now I was listening. “I don’t even know where she lives,” I lied. Right after the divorce, Ms. DeVeau bought the house next to the railroad tracks on Arbor Street. She had the exterior painted a shade of soft orange she wanted to read as authentic California. She also took up gardening. Her excessive yard work didn’t impress anyone in our drought-ridden town, but she had a lifetime my-child-died-and-is-now-Cadence’s-legacy pass and got to do whatever she so pleased.