“Those thongs are pretty nice, Mom,” Starla said, her blue eyes flashing. “I wish you would have bought me some.”

Mindee reached for her glass. “Don’t you ever listen?”

Starla made a face. “Don’t you ever buy me anything anymore?”

“Considering that we have hardly any money because of legal fees for me and your brother, I think we’re doing all right.”

“Maybe Jake should get a real job,” Starla said, referring to her mom’s younger bad-boy boyfriend. “Where is he anyway?”

Mindee looked at her phone. It was after six. “He’s over at Sheila’s helping her repipe her laundry room,” she said.

The teenager rolled her eyes with such overt exaggeration that she was lucky they stayed in their sockets. “Is that what he calls it now?” she asked.

“Starla! That’s not nice,” Mindee said, shaking her head. “The Victoria’s Secret thing could be big for me, for us.”

Starla, still annoyed, always liked to hear how something could benefit her. “How?” she asked.

Mindee took a dramatic breath. “If Brianna—who I’ve always thought was as cold as her mother—killed that British girl and gets caught for doing it, everyone will forget all about what your brother did.”

Starla gathered her hair and made a messy ponytail. “Or really, Mom, what you’re saying is no one will think about what you did.”

Mindee let the gibe pass. If Starla had learned how to ignore and put herself above others, she’d learned it from her mother.

“I’m telling Chief Garnett tomorrow,” Mindee said. “I can’t withhold this crucial evidence. It just wouldn’t be right. I’m all about doing the right thing.” She sipped the rest of her wine and looked longingly in the direction of the sangria. I think I’ll treat myself to a third glass tonight. I deserve it.

Chapter 9

TUESDAY AT KINGSTON HIGH was far from normal. With the news of Olivia’s death moved far beyond teen Twitter to the Seattle news channels, Principal Andrea Sandusky knew she had to respond in an appropriate and sensitive manner. Gone were the days when kids were told to buck up and shut up, like they had been when she was their age. Andrea took off one of her wide looped gold earrings and dialed the number of Phoebe Cooper, the district’s designated grief counselor, a woman who seemed to relish the role a little too much—as if she were sucking in tragedy like a vampire.

Empathetic? Sort of. Always available? Definitely. For a price.

“Tell me, how does it make you feel?” Dr. Cooper would say over and over.

“It’s all right to cry, dear,” she’d offer, her lips a straight line. “Crying is a gift, a present all wrapped up in tears. Let it go.”

And finally, the zinger she’d always end on—no matter the occasion. It could be a car crash that killed someone’s parents. A kid buried in an avalanche and yet to be found. It didn’t matter to Dr. Cooper.

“Life isn’t fair,” she would say, “though we wish it could be.”

Students were encouraged to seek help from Dr. Cooper at any point during the day, and teachers were asked to give even the most misbehaved some latitude during a very trying time.

Beth and Brianna were both at school, although they stayed on opposite sides of the hall whenever possible. Beth, who’d barely slept—thanks to chain-guzzling Red Bull—was jittery. She was trying her best to cope with Olivia’s death as well as the aftermath of Annie’s visit to the house. Brianna let out some tears but mostly spun around her rapt circle of friends telling the gruesome story of discovering the body.

“You don’t even want to know how gross it was, but if you really, really want me to tell you . . .”

Colton and Hayley watched her from the other side of the hallway.

“She sure doesn’t seem upset,” he said. “I mean, not like you or your sister or Beth.”

“I’ve always kind of felt a little sorry for Bree,” Hayley said.

Colton set his backpack on a bench and searched it for his homework.

“Sorry for her? She has everything.”

“Yeah, she has a big house,” Hayley said. “The biggest house we’ve ever seen. She has her own car and everything, but she always seems a little lonely to me.”

Colton pulled out his English paper, relieved that he hadn’t left it at home. “You mean like some attention is better than none at all?” he asked.

Hayley nodded as they started for class.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just watching Brianna makes me want to figure out what happened even more. We owe it to Olivia.”

UNFORTUNATELY FOR TAYLOR, Mr. Hayden, her hipster wannabe “Family Life” teacher who didn’t realize that skinny jeans only work if you’re actually skinny, was plowing ahead with their latest project, right on schedule. Olivia’s death, apparently, only put a dent in her “Story of My Life in Words and Pictures” assignment—not anyone else’s.

“People, I want high points and low points,” Mr. Hayden pontificated from the front of the classroom after saying a few words about Olivia’s death and Dr. Cooper’s availability for counseling. “Gather up photos and family mementos. Scan them, provide explanatory text, and above all make sure your presentation shows creative edge and breadth of discovery.”

As he walked, Mr. Hayden’s loaf-sized muffin top jiggled over his low-risers and the reek of his Aqua Velva cologne made its way down the aisles, jolting awake the sophomores sleeping at the back of the room. Turning abruptly on his heel, Mr. Hayden stopped and leaned on Taylor’s desk. He looked her straight in the eye, giving her a too-close-for-comfort view of the sandy-gray plume of hair emanating from his shirt collar like a Mount St. Helens eruption.

“I really need to see you in words and pictures. Your real self. Your authentic being. Each and every one of you is totally amazing. Each of you is dipped in awesome sauce,” he said.

Taylor shot an incredulous look over at Beth, who was marooned with her in the worst class ever.

“Is he asking us to be scrapbookers?” Taylor whispered as soon as he trotted away to torture a new victim.

Beth rolled her eyes. “Yeah, too bad I got rid of those scalloped scissors in third grade.”

Taylor couldn’t agree more. “I’m still gagging on the idea that we’re dipped in awesome sauce.”

DURING LUNCH PERIOD, Taylor approached Brianna by the studentrun latte stand in front of the cafeteria. Brianna had been holding court there off and on, retelling the horror of her discovery to all who would listen, which was just about anyone with a heartbeat. It was, after all, not only a ghastly story but also the kind of thing that usually only happened to people on TV.

“Bree, I know you’ve been through a lot. I’m really sorry,” Taylor said.

Brianna did a hair toss and paid for her drink, a mocha with cherry syrup and a mountain of whipped cream.

“No kidding,” she said. “I have been getting dozens of requests for interviews. Seems like finding a dead girl in your bedroom is newsworthy. Maybe your dad will want to interview me for one of his books.”

Taylor took her latte, a vanilla soy, no foam. “Maybe. My dad usually only covers stories after the perpetrator has been caught and brought to justice.”

“A semi-journalist with ethics,” Brianna said. “That’s ironic.”

Taylor let it go.

“Well, I’m sorry about what you’re going through,” she said.

“I guess someone had to find her, and we were practically best friends. So really, what choice do I have? I’m being victimized right along with Olivia.”

Not exactly, Taylor thought. Olivia is dead. You’re drinking a disgusting cherry mocha.

“What do you mean, victimized?” Taylor asked.

Brianna ate the cherry off her whipped cream. “People talk,” she said. “They say nasty things. I get it. I’ve been thrust into the public eye. The TV reporters are coming around. Everyone wants a piece of me. I feel like one of the Kardashians, except, thank God, I have a smaller butt.”