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But, like an out-of-the-way town thatā€™s about a decade behind the rest of the country in fashion and music, Mr. Black hasnā€™t realized yet that things between me and his son have changed again.

And what did he mean by ā€œthis afternoonā€™s incidentā€? The almost-fight between me and Savannah was this morningā€”and the guys were all there, but they didnā€™t actually do anything that could get them in trouble.

Did something else happen later in the day?

What? When?

Why?

I scrub my hands down my face, shaking my head as I push away from the door. I donā€™t have time to get caught up in wondering what the fuck Lincoln and the rest of the guys were doing with Savannah. Iā€™ve got what feels like a mountain of homework to catch up on, and although itā€™s not as good as finding the man in black, itā€™s one thing I know I can do for my momā€”one bit of stress I can try to relieve her of.

That thought is a damn good motivator, and I spend the rest of the afternoon holed up in my room poring over books and writing papers. I sneak over to Momā€™s apartment around seven to grab some dinnerā€”Iā€™ll need to get to the store soon, since the supplies in her kitchen are dwindlingā€”and then hit the books again until I canā€™t keep my eyes open anymore.

I shove the stack of textbooks to the floor, turn off the lamp, and crawl under the covers, pulling them up tight around my chin. Just as Iā€™m starting to doze off, a light knock sounds at the door, and my eyelids fly open. My body goes rigid under the blankets, and I hold absolutely still, feeling my heart kick against my ribs.

The knock comes againā€”three soft raps against the wood.

But I donā€™t answer.

And a few moments later, whoever it is goes away.

Mr. Osterhaut told Lincolnā€™s dad pretty much the same thing he told me about the zero tolerance policy for altercations on school grounds, even ifā€”or maybe especially ifā€”they have to do with Irisā€™s death and my momā€™s arrest.

I sure as fuck hope Savannah got the same lecture, since sheā€™s far from an innocent bystander here. But regardless, I go out of my way to avoid her on Friday, not wanting to risk getting in trouble again. Between dodging her and avoiding the four kings, I feel like I spend most of the day ducking into corners or down random hallways.

When school lets out, I head for the bus stop at a fast clip. A quick glance over my shoulder as I reach the edge of campus reveals Lincoln and River stepping out through the front doors of Linwood.

Riverā€™s head snaps toward me like some sixth sense told him exactly where Iā€™d be, and even though weā€™re too far apart to really see each otherā€™s eyes, I can feel our gazes connect anyway.

I drag my focus away, picking up my pace even more. When I hop on the bus this time, I take the one headed in the direction of Fox Hill Correctional Center. I didnā€™t visit Mom yesterday, and Iā€™m not letting another day go by without seeing her. Iā€™ll have to spend the rest of the evening doing more homework catch-up, but Iā€™d rather be late on a few assignments than skip seeing her.

The routine of getting checked in at the prison is starting to feel familiar, just like all the routines Mom and I developed when I was going through my cancer treatments. Sometimes I canā€™t believe how adaptable humans are, how quickly what should seem insane can start to feel normal. It can be both a good thing and a bad thing, I think.

Momā€™s dressed in garish orange like always, and when I walk in today, she looks more tired than she did last time I saw her. Itā€™s going on a week since she was arrested, and the thought of how much longer she might have to be here makes me feel queasy.

I sit down across from her and pick up the phone from its cradle. ā€œHey, Mom. Howā€™re you doing?ā€

ā€œGood. Good.ā€ She smiles and nods, but this time itā€™s all fake.

ā€œWhat happened?ā€

ā€œOh.ā€ The smile drips off her face, and she chews her lip for a second, like sheā€™s wondering if she should tell me.

ā€œMom. What happened?ā€

ā€œI spoke with my lawyer this morning. Leda Koffman. She saidā€¦ā€ Confusion and hopelessness flit across her face, and I lean closer, staring at her as she continues. ā€œShe told me the police found traces of Irisā€™s DNA on the front grill of my car. Soā€”so that really helps their case.ā€

She says that last part matter-of-factly, as if sheā€™s talking about some other murder investigation and some other woman whoā€™s been wrongly implicated.

I shake my head, trying to process her words and deny them at the same time. ā€œWhat does that mean? I mean, it doesnā€™t prove anything, does it? You didnā€™t do it, so how can they make it seem like you did?ā€

ā€œI donā€™t know, kiddo.ā€ She smiles softly, and even though this one is genuine, it breaks my heart anyway. Because thereā€™s something that looks like resignation in it. ā€œIt doesnā€™t prove anything. But it gives them something solid and tangible to present in court. Weā€™ll get to present our evidence too, and hopefully Leda can put together a strong case. I justā€¦ I donā€™t know.ā€

My stomach churns, unhappy about the pizza I ate in the cafeteria several hours ago, as I stare at my mom through the glass. Her brown eyes are dim, and she shakes her head, huffing a humorless laugh.

ā€œI guess I should just hope Alexander is the judge assigned to the trial.ā€

ā€œWhat?ā€

ā€œOh. Judge Hollowell,ā€ she clarifies. ā€œHeā€™s the one I went out with a couple of times. Although I guess maybe heā€™d have to recuse himself because of that? I donā€™t know if having gone on a few dates qualifies as having some kind of previous relationship or not.ā€ She sighs, reaching up to

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