Page 122

I must have misheard him.
It sounds like he’s accusingNoahof shooting Mom.
Noah looks stricken. “What?” he cries. “Sheriff, what’s going on? What are you talking about?”
I turn to my best friend and his face mirrors my own shock.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the sheriff continues, taking out a pair of cuffs. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he says quietly.
“This is insane,” Noah protests. “I didn’t do anything!”
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be real.
“Caden,” Noah says desperately. “I didn’t do this, Caden.” The sheriff continues to read him his rights. “I swear. You’ve got to believe me. Youknowme, Cade. I didn’t do this!”
I don’t know what to say. My mouth has gone dry and my knees shake. Isla’s hand on my arm is the only thing keeping me upright.
Noah allows himself to be handcuffed and led away. They put him in the back of one of the cars and drive off.
My head pounds.
“It can’t be,” Isla murmurs. “It can’t be Noah.” She hesitates. “Can it?”
“No,” I say. The reaction is a knee-jerk, immediate. But then my brain starts to spin over these past couple of months. How Noah always seemed to be picking and choosing what he could tell me or how he could help.
Isla’s comment about the shooter having firearms training.
How the killer seemed to have knowledge of the house and grounds, using the entrance through the garden.
Mrs. Greerson’s observation that she saw Noah wandering the halls at the party.
Could it have beenNoahin that room arguing with Mom?
Oh god. I feel like I’m falling, the world around me blurred and distorted.
“Caden?” Isla says.
“This can’t be happening,” I gasp.
Did my best friend murder my mother?