AFTER SCHOOL THAT DAY, CAITLIN pulled into her driveway to grab her soccer cleats, which she’d forgotten for practice. She found them right away and rushed out of her room, back to her car—with any luck, she’d only miss warm-ups. But then she noticed the TV on in the den. A news reporter stood in front of Nolan Hotchkiss’s house, which was now surrounded by yellow police tape, sawhorses, and gawkers.
“At the moment, the police are just asking questions, gathering facts, and canvassing the Hotchkiss home,” the reporter said. “There were a lot of students at the Hotchkiss home the night of the party, and it’s unclear exactly what happened—and when.”
Ursula Winters appeared on the screen. “I loved Nolan so much,” she said, her voice full of feeling. “Everyone did. It’s such a horrible blow.”
Caitlin’s mouth hung open. Ursula hated Nolan. Not because of what he did to Taylor, but because he’d rejected her when she asked him out. She even remembered Ursula bad-mouthing him on the soccer field shortly after he died: You can talk about a dead guy if he was an asshole. And then she’d looked at Caitlin pointedly, as if those were her words. Which they kind of were.
Then came a shot of Mrs. Hotchkiss, a thin, severe-looking, overly Botoxed woman who had a plaid headband holding back her ash-blond hair. Her eyes were red, and her mouth wobbled. “I just don’t understand who would do this to my boy. He was everyone’s friend.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Caitlin snarled.
“Ahem.”
She looked up. One of her moms, Sibyl, was sitting in the slipper chair in the corner, a stack of papers and a calculator balanced on her lap. Her mom was an accountant, so she often kept odd hours, coming home in the middle of the day for lunch, rushing off to finish a tax return on a weekend, practically absent from March to April.
“Caitlin,” Sibyl said gently but also firmly.
“What?” Caitlin glared at her. “I’m sorry if I sound callous, but Nolan was not everyone’s friend. You know it, too.”
Sibyl put the papers on the table next to her and stared at her lap. “I know what I know,” she said softly. “But I let go of the fury I had for that boy a long time ago. If I didn’t, it would consume me. Like perhaps it’s consuming you.”
Caitlin crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, well. You’re a stronger person than I am.”
Her mother rose from the chair and came over to stand next to Caitlin. Up close, she had minute lines around her eyes and threads of gray through her hair. Her body was soft, comfortable, the way a mom’s should be. Her lips parted, and she said, “You were at that party, weren’t you? Michelle and I were talking about it. She said you and Josh went together.”
“A lot of people were at that party,” Caitlin said quickly, her heart starting to pound.
“I know, I know. I just hate that something so . . . awful happened somewhere so close to you. Again.” Her mother looked at her hard. “You know, sometimes, when I’m angry, I do things that I shouldn’t. I’ve told you I was teased a lot in high school for being gay. One time, I got revenge on one of the girls who teased me the most. Her name was Lindsey.”
“What did you do?”
Her mother fiddled with the Bic pen in her hand. “During gym class, I snuck into the locker room and cut out the crotch of her jeans and stole her underwear. No one locked up their stuff—I didn’t even have to break in.”
“Mom!” Caitlin’s eyes widened. “That’s horrible!”
“I know.” Sibyl’s brow furrowed. “It is horrible. And you know what? I felt awful as soon as I did it. It just wasn’t worth it at all.”
Caitlin could feel her mother watching her. There was a long silence, like maybe her mom was waiting for her to confess something.
A memory flashed in her mind of that night. Nolan had collapsed woozily onto his bed. For a moment afterward, Caitlin felt a pang of guilt. Lying there, Nolan looked almost vulnerable, sort of like how her brother looked when he used to fall asleep on the couch.
But then he’d gazed at Caitlin and smiled. “You know what your brother sounded like when I swirlied him?” Then he’d made this horrible, girlish wail, a sound so humiliating that she’d almost slapped him. Instead, she’d written Not to be trusted across his face.
She turned away. “I didn’t do anything to Nolan, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she lied.
Her mother held her gaze for a beat longer, then nodded. “Of course you didn’t.”
Then she stood up, gathered her things, and walked out of the room. “I’m running to the office,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ve got a meeting. Be back later.”