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NO ONE IS lurking around the perimeter of the café and for a moment, I wonder if I imagined Abby’s presence. But how could I conjure up an injury I knew nothing about? It had to be Abby peering in the window at her mother and me. And I have to talk to her.

I hurry down the side of the building and turn into the back alley. At the end, a delivery truck backs up to a grocery store, beeping its warning. Otherwise, the passage appears deserted. But I move forward on stealthy feet. There are a dozen places to hide: between parked cars, in loading bays, or behind dumpsters. As I pass behind a framing store, I sense more than hear her presence. I move closer and spot her. Abby Lester is crouched between an SUV and a small sedan. She is hiding from me.

It’s possible, even likely, that Abby will scream and run away. She loathes me, and now I know it’s justified. But I approach, slowly and carefully, like she’s a skittish foal, a beaten dog, a cornered animal.

“Abby,” I say gently. “Can we talk?”

Slowly she rises, her lithe form unfurling. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I just want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” she snaps. “Pretending to care about me?”

“I do care about you.”

“No, you don’t,” she says bitterly. “You were supposed to help me, but you just wanted to protect your daughter.”

“I didn’t know Liza was at your party.” My voice is pleading. “I just found out.”

“She wasn’t just at my party.” Abby’s pitch and volume rise. She takes a step toward me. “Liza gave me those pills. She told me they were a low dosage. That I could take five or six of them and just get a buzz.”

I choke on a gasp, or maybe it’s a sob. Did Liza lie to me? I feel sick to my stomach, but I need more clarity. “Liza said she wasn’t there when you took the drugs. She said she came later with Wyatt and Sage.”

“I don’t know who came when,” Abby snaps. “I just know that your daughter poisoned me.”

The words are a gut punch, and I feel sick to my stomach. But something still isn’t sitting right with me. Abby had told her parents, the police, and the school that she didn’t remember what happened that night. Blacking out from drug use is not uncommon; neither is blocking out a traumatic event. So did Abby remember after all? Had she been lying about that?

I clear my throat. “So you remember Liza giving you the pills?”

“Yeah, of course I do.” But she doesn’t. It’s obvious in the way she shakes her head slightly, the way her eyes flicker around the alleyway. I have enough experience to know when a teenager is lying.

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Or did someone tell you what happened?”

“I remember,” she mutters. “But Fiona filled in the blanks. She’s the only one who checks in with me.”

A picture begins to form in my head. Fiona Carmichael threw Liza under the bus to protect herself. She’s been telling Abby that Liza is to blame while simultaneously pretending to be Liza’s friend to ensure she doesn’t come forward. The girl is Machiavellian.

“I think Fiona is lying to you,” I say gently. “To protect herself.”

“No, she’s not. You’re lying to protect Liza.”

“I think Hugo brought the drugs. And Fiona convinced you to take so many because she was mad that you liked him. And maybe he liked you, too. Fiona couldn’t handle that.”

I can see the doubt creeping in, but Abby pushes it away. “Fuck you. That’s just what Liza told you.”

She hates my daughter. And she hates me.

“Did you send me the emails about my book?”

“What if I did? I have a right to an opinion.”

It’s as good as an admission. “Of course you do.” I recall Abby excelling in her programming classes, getting a scholarship to the best computer science program in the country. She had the technical skills to hack me. And the insider knowledge—supplied by Fiona, who has befriended my daughter—to hurt me and destroy my relationships. This broken girl was twisted and manipulated into hating Liza, into hating me, and she lashed out online while keeping her identity private.

I have to ask, “What happened to your arm?”

“I burned it. At a party.”

“Where was the party?”

She pushes past me, moves down the alley. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

I follow her. “Did you… did you set fire to Shane Miller’s kitchen?”

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t stop. She quickens her pace. I have no choice but to call out.

“He’s dead, Abby!”

She stops and whirls around to face me. “No,” she says, her eyes full of tears, and terror. “He’s not dead.”

“He is,” I say, closing the distance between us. “Shane Miller died in the house fire.”

“Why didn’t he wake up?” she screams, like it’s my fault. “Why didn’t he get out?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he was high or drunk. Or maybe he took a sleeping pill.”

“I… I only wanted to destroy your laptop,” she says through sobs. “So Shane couldn’t prove that it was me.”

I am trained for this. I nod, emanate understanding, let her fill the silence. And she does.

“I followed you to your meeting then followed him home. I was going to steal the laptop, but he kept it with him, and I had to go home. So I went back after the weekend, and I saw it through his kitchen window. When he went to bed, I got inside. I thought I’d do what Star did in your book. I put the laptop next to the stove and I lit a pan on fire. But it got out of control. I… I burned my arm. I had to run away.” Her face is pale and haunted. “He was supposed to wake up.”

“I know,” I say gently. “It was an accident. And you’ve been through a lot, Abby. The police will understand that.”

“You can’t call the police on me! You made me do this! You and Liza! What happened to me is all your fault!”

She nearly collapses then, and I rush forward, catch her in my arms before she hits the pavement. Abby’s having a panic attack, an emotional breakdown. She’s been through so much that her nervous system is shutting down, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions. How can I call the cops on her when she’s a victim in this whole mess, too?

And then I see Rebecca, moving slowly up behind her daughter. She is close, within earshot. She’s heard the whole encounter. I notice the phone in her hand, the screen alight. Tears stream down Rebecca’s face, but her voice is steady and strong when she speaks.

“I need the police, please.”