I grab at his arm. “No. You can’t. You can’t sell the Mustang.”

“Just a car, Sam.”

I can’t stand it. All the hours Jase has spent on the Mustang, whistling through his teeth, tinkering away. How he pores through Car Enthusiast or Hemmings magazine, dog-earing the pages. It’s not just a car. It’s the place he goes to relax, find himself again. The way I used to search the stars. Or watch the Garretts. The way I swim.

“It’s not,” I say. “Only that.”

Instead of continuing on the highway toward French Bob’s he pulls off now and loops back on the long road that lines the river, stopping in McGuire Park.

The Bug is old and noisy, but that’s probably not why it’s so silent when he turns the key and shuts off the ignition. It’s the first time I’ve been here since that night. There are noises—the slow lap of the waves on the rocks, since a speedboat has just hurried by, seagulls calling and plunging, dropping clams on the rocks. Jase climbs out, nudging at a rock on the dirt road with the toe of his sneaker, headed not to the Secret Hideaway, but toward the bend in the road by the playground.

“I keep calling them,” he tells me. “The police. They just say there’s nothing, really, they can do. Without witnesses.” A well-aimed kick sends the rock skittering off the sandy road onto the grass. “Why did it have to be raining that night? It’s hardly rained all summer.”

“Does it really matter that it was?” I ask.

“If not”—he drops into a crouch, moves his finger in the dirt—“there might have been something. Tire tracks. Something. As it is…whoever did this will get completely away and will never know how much harm they did.”

Or they’ll know and not care.

Shame burns in my chest now, replacing the anger over Nan. More than anything in the world I want to tell him the truth. From the start, it’s been easy to tell him that, truths I’ve never told anyone. He’s always listened and understood.

But there’s no way to understand this.

How can he, when I don’t understand it myself.

Chapter Forty-three

“Hi sweetheart! I’m making up some meals for you to have on hand. I’m gone so often these days that we don’t get to have dinners together. I don’t want you living on that garbage from Breakfast Ahoy or the snack stand at the club. So I’ve made up some dinners—that roast chicken one you like with the mushrooms, and some pasta Bolognese.” Mom says all this cheerily as I drag myself into the kitchen after coming home from lifeguarding. “I’ve labeled them all and I’m going to put some in the freezer.” And on and on.

Her voice is firm and calm, chatty. She’s wearing a watermelon-colored wrap dress and her hair down, looking young enough to be my older sister. Mrs. Garrett has circles under her eyes these days, is gaunt and perpetually distracted. Though I’ve tried to keep things clean, the Garretts’ house gets messier by the day. Patsy’s fussy, George clingy, Harry misbehaving, Andy and Duff fighting like bears. Jase is tense and preoccupied, Alice even more acerbic. Everything is different next door. Nothing’s changed here.

“Would you like some lemonade?” Mom asks. “They had Meyer lemons at the Gibson’s Gourmet the other day, so I made it with those for a change. I think this is the best batch ever.” She pours me a glass, the picture of graceful efficiency and maternal solicitude.

“Stop it, Mom,” I say, sliding into the kitchen stool.

“You don’t want me to mother you so much, I know. But all the other summers when I’ve had to work, you’ve had Tracy to keep you company. Should I post a chart of what’s frozen and what’s fresh? I don’t need to do that. You’ll remember, right? I just suddenly realized how alone you are.”

“You have no idea.”

Something in my tone must get to her because she halts, glances at me nervously, then continues rapidly, “When this election is over, we’ll take a good, long vacation. Maybe somewhere in the Caribbean. I’ve heard great things about Virgin Gorda.”

“I can’t believe you. Are you, like, a robot now? How can you just act like everything’s normal?”

Mom stills in the act of putting Tupperware in the freezer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“You need to tell the truth about what happened,” I say.

She straightens up slowly, looking me in the eye for the first time in days, chewing her bottom lip. “He’ll be fine.” She snaps a lid tightly. “I’ve followed it in the news. Jack Garrett’s a relatively young man, in good shape. Things might be rough for a while, but he’ll be fine. In the end, no real damage done.”

I lean forward, hands flat on the counter, my palms sliding across the cool surface of the kitchen island. “How can you even say that? Do you actually believe it? This isn’t some, some nothing—” I fling one hand out, accidentally hitting the Waterford crystal fruit bowl full of lemons, sending it flying toward the wall, splintering on the tile floor with a jarring crash, lemons bouncing everywhere.

“That belonged to my grandparents,” Mom says tightly. “Don’t move. I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.”

Something about the accustomed sight of her, bent over, moving the vacuum in orderly symmetrical strokes in her dress and her heels, makes me feel as though I’m going to explode. I jump down from the stool and flick the OFF button.

“You can’t just tidy it up and forget it, Mom. The Garretts have no health insurance. Did you know that?”

She pulls the trash can out from under the sink, snapping on her rubber gloves, and begins methodically putting the larger chunks of glass into the bag. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s your fault that it matters that they don’t. He’s going to be in the hospital for months! Then maybe rehab—who knows for how long? The hardware store was already struggling.”

“That also has nothing to do with me. Many small businesses are struggling, Samantha. It’s unfortunate, and you know I’ve made speeches about that very issue—”

“Speeches? Are you serious?”

She winces at the volume of my voice, then turns and switches the vacuum on again.

I yank the plug out of the wall.

“What about everything you’ve ever told me about facing up to your responsibilities? Did you mean any of it?”

“Don’t speak to me that way, Samantha. I’m the parent here. I am doing the responsible thing, staying where I can do the greater good. How will it help the Garretts if I lose my job, if I have to retire in disgrace? That won’t fix anything. What’s done is done.”

“He could have died. What if he’d died, Mom? The father of eight children. What would you do then?”

“He didn’t die. Clay called the police from the pay phone at Gas-and-Go that night. We didn’t just ignore the whole thing.”

“But you are ignoring the whole thing. That’s exactly what you’re doing. Mrs. Garrett is pregnant. Now they’re going to have another baby and Mr. Garrett won’t be able to work! What’s wrong with you?”

Mom jerks the vacuum cleaner cord out of my hands, winding it into tight coils. “Well, there you go. Who has that many children in this day and age? They shouldn’t have had such a large family if they couldn’t afford one.”

“How is Jase even going to go back to school this fall if he has to replace his dad at the store?”

“There, you see!” Mom says sharply. “It’s just like Clay told me. It all comes down to your feelings for this young man. This is all about you, Samantha.”

I stand there, incredulous. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me!”

She folds her arms and looks at me pityingly. “If I had accidentally hit someone you didn’t know, a stranger to you, would you be acting like this? Would you be asking me to give up my entire career because of something that’s going to cause some temporary challenges for someone?”

I stare at her. “I hope I would. I think I would. Because that’s the right thing to do.”