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She shakes her head, sniffs, and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “The-the-the-the slideshow,” she stutters, fresh wave of tears filling her eyes. “B-B-Becca changed my pictures.”

My hackles raise. I put my hands on her arms, rounding my spine until my eyes are level with hers. “Wren, what happened?”

She looks at me, sniffs, and says, “She put my mom’s mugshot in the slideshow.” Another loud sob bubbles out of her.

I pull back, and Ford and I exchange a look.A play right from her mother’s handbook.That rat-faced little bitch.

“Wren, it’s going to be okay,” Ford says softly, wrapping his arms around her. “It was bound to get out. Kids are just mean.”

At this, I guffaw. “Mean?!” I ask incredulously. “That girl’s a damn snake in the grass, Ford. I told you this would happen!”

“Scotty,” he snaps, tucking Wren’s face against his chest. “Not now.”

“Not now?” My eyes narrow, hands gesticulating wildly as I talk. “When the hell do you want to talk about it? Because now that she’s pulled this little stunt—which reeks of familiarity in case you haven’t noticed—seems like the perfect time. I knew when I talked to her at Orchard Fest that—”

Wren jerks away from Ford’s chest and looks at me. “Youtalkedto her?”

She and Ford stare at me.

“Yes. Italked to her,” I snip, annoyed these deaf dodos won’t listen. “Put her in her place was more like it. She was saying—”

“Why would you do that?” Wren demands, voice glacial.

“The dog listens better than you!” I cry. “I’ve tried to tell you.” I cut my eyes to Ford. “Both of you.”

“I don’t need you to talk to her, Scotty,” Wren seethes, swiping the tears from her face.

“Wren.” Ford manages to stay calm. “Just relax.”

“You don’t need me to talk to her?” I scoff, voice turning to a shout. “Apparently it doesn’t matter because you still tried to be her friend.”

Ford grabs my arm; I jerk it away.

Wren swipes at her eyes with angry hands. “You’re just mad because I have a life and you don’t.”

“The Letts girl is alife?” I laugh—it’s maniacal. “Okay, Wren.Sure.”

“Wren,” Ford says, voice low as he steps closer to her. “Maybe—”

“No, Ford.” I hold up my hand. The Miranda Lambert record that’s been playing ends, a clicking silence filling the air, ramping up the tension. “Let her talk. Because I’d really love to hear this. Really love to know why I shouldn’t have defended her to that little she-devil, because I promise I’ll never do it agoddamngain.”

Wren steps away from Ford, squaring up to me, looking much more woman than girl in this moment, her gaze so cold it could freeze fire.

“I don’t need you todefendme,” she spits out, fuming. Each word makes my stomach drop closer to the floor. “You aren’t my mom, Scotty—thank God. Because you ruin everything.”

When I think she’s done: “You’re so fucked up you ruin everyone.”

It stings like a bitch-slap to my face and heart. I can’t see straight. Can’t breathe.

“Wren,” Ford barks. “Enough. Go to the truck. Now.”

I’m trembling; her chest is heaving. Tears are running down both our faces for very different reasons.

When her eyes meet mine again, they're full of fight. “You couldn’t save your brother, stop trying to save me.”

“Wren!” Ford shouts. “Now!”

She storms out.