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Wren clears her throat. “Scotty.” She puts the envelope of photos on the table.

I smile slightly and offer a greeting Riley ignores.

“I wanted to come here so you know I’m fine,” Wren tells her. “In case you ever wondered. And I wanted to see if you were fine, because I do wonder.”

Riley remains silent; I stay out of it like I promised Wren on the drive.“None of your colorful language,”Wren said about forty-nine times. I told her I’d stay quiet, but it’s a struggle. Under the table, my knee bounces and I snap the shit out of my wrist with a rubber band; Wren threw hers away months ago.

“I’m friends with the mom of the girl you killed.” Wren’s voice teeters just slightly. “And she’s”—a breath comes out of her in a gust—“incredible.”

Riley’s eyes widen slightly, but she says nothing. I wish Mel were here to witness it.

“Anyway.” Wren slides the envelope toward her. “I have some pictures. Of me, if you want them. And there’s some paperwork in there I’d like you to sign. I brought a pen.”

My eyebrows pinch—I only knew about the photos. Riley wordlessly empties the envelope onto the table, picking up the papers first and skimming them. Her eyes flick to us as she flips a page. To me: “Who are you again?”

“Uh.” My chin pulls back. “I’m Ford’s . . .” My eyes swing to Wren. “Person.”

“She’s my best friend,” Wren says in the wake of my lame answer. “She took me to therapy when I started cutting myself after you went away.” I stop bouncing and snapping; my jaw drops. Riley stares at her. “She helped me talk to a boy. My boyfriend now. Luke. She kept me out of trouble. She took me shopping. She bought me a record. Lots of records, actually.” Wren laughs softly. “She let me pick out furniture for her house. Our house.” She looks at me; I don’t argue. Six months ago, she and Ford stayed the night at the A-frame and never left. “She defended me when kids at school made me feel ashamed. She helps me do my homework even though she’s really bad at it. She’s teaching me to drive even though I’m not sure anything she does is legal. She loves my dad, and he loves her so much it’s disgusting.”

At my recited resumé of skills, I bite back a proud smile.

Riley eyes me before picking up the pen, hovering it over the papers. “You got any other kids?”

I look at Wren.What the hell?

“Uh—”

“She does,” Wren says to Riley, voice strong. “A son. She was a selfless mother to him.” She glances at me. “And that’s why I want you to sign over your rights. So she can adopt me.”

My jaw drops.

Wren adds, “If she’ll have me.”

I press my tongue into the back of my teeth to keep from crying, swallowing twice. Three times. Finally, I look at Riley. “I could probably do that.”

Wren’s lips twitch, amused brightness in her eyes.Little shit.

Riley doesn’t hesitate; she scribbles her name on the papers and slides them across the table. “I never wanted to be a mom,” she says to Wren, the familiarity of them to what Glory said smacking me across the face. “You were a mistake.” Under the table, my hand grips Wren’s. Tight. “But you seemed to have turned out okay.” Her gaze flicks to me. “Ford kept a picture of you in his house. You’re the one with the brother, right?”

At her words, I understand why prison shanks are a thing. I hate this bitch.

I clear my throat and nod. “I’m sure a lot of people have brothers, but yes, Ihada brother.”

She thumbs through the pictures Wren brought—her at various stages of life—then haphazardly tosses them onto the envelope, looking at her daughter again. “Anything else?”

“That’s it,” Wren says, indifferent as she shuffles everything her mom doesn’t want back into the envelope. I open my mouth to tellthis woman that she can go fuck a rusty razor blade, but Wren stops me, standing abruptly and taking a moral high ground I loathe. “I hope you have a nice life.”

Wren looks toward the guard and gestures we’re done. We leave—without looking back. The visit is over. Deep down I think it will be the last time Wren will ever see her.

The conversation replays in my head—what Wren must be thinking. Feeling. Me adopting her—Ford must know. Everything jumbles together like dice in a cup.

At my Bronco—a brand-new one that’s fire-engine red and fully loaded—she opens the door. I sit without starting it. Without moving or speaking. Heart galloping in my chest.

When I look at her, I expect to see tears, but instead, she’s . . . fine.

“You okay?” I ask.

“She’s exactly how I remember,” she says with a slight shrug. “She never wanted kids—guess I can’t blame her for not caring.”