What if this all had to do with her past? With what she’d done?

From down the hallway music rang out. It took her a few seconds to realize it was her phone ringing from where she’d left it in Amelia’s room. Dropping the glasses and the paper, she raced toward it.

“Dan?” she answered breathlessly.

“Hey, Whit.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“No,” he said, his tone wary. “I actually called because I wanted to come clean about what I told the police earlier. I wanted you to hear it from me,” Dan said. Whitney pitched forward. “I told them about my suspicions.”

“Suspicions?” Her mouth dried out.

“About Amelia’s eye color.”

“Oh, my God. Are you serious?” Shaking her head, she blew out a breath. “Why?”

“Because the police need to be looking into him. He might have something to do with it.”

Her chest tightened. “You didn’t tell them his name, did you?” When he didn’t readily answer, she let out a shaky breath. “Dan?”

“I had to.”

“Why? It doesn’t make any sense. He’s in prison.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I don’t know. I think so. Why? Do you know something I don’t?”

“No,” Dan said. “I don’t keep tabs on him.”

“Neither do I,” she said, her cheeks stinging at the implication.

“Well, maybe you should.”

“There’s no reason to. He has nothing to do with Amelia. He’s just my high school ex-boyfriend. Why are we involving him? God, what were you thinking?”

“You want everyone to think you’ve changed, Whit. But you haven’t. Not at all. You’re still the same. Always in protection mode.”

“I’m not protecting him.”

“I know. I’m not talking about him.”

She recoiled, as if he’d slapped her. She couldn’t deny it. She was protecting herself. But not just herself. She was also protecting Amelia.

Dan thought he knew everything. That he had it all figured out. But that was Dan’s problem from the beginning. He’d always underestimated Whitney.

Thought he was smarter. Knew more.

He was wrong.

Dr. Carter sat across from Whitney, his eyes blinking behind his large glasses.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to talk about.” Whitney picked at a hole in the thigh of her jeans, tugging at a loose string.

“These are your sessions, Whitney. You can talk about whatever you’d like.”

“But they’re not really. My parents are forcing these on me,” she admitted. “They think I’m depressed.”

“Are you?”

She didn’t know how to answer that. She’d been sad, lately, yeah. But depressed? She wasn’t sure she’d go that far.

“They think I can’t get past my brother’s death.” The string came off her jeans and she wrapped it around her pinky finger.