I needed to find an apartment.

That was Tuesday.

On Wednesday I sat alone on the porch, wondering if anyone would ever come back. By Thursday I’d given up on them. Loni was gone, just like my mom, and she’d taken Painter with her. I worked a double shift, and talked to one of my fellow waitresses about a bedroom in the house she rented with friends.

She thought one of them might be moving out in a couple weeks.

Friday morning, I woke to the sound of a big diesel truck in the driveway. Rushing downstairs, I opened the front door to see London climbing down from the vehicle, looking exhausted. Reese was already out, and then another person slid out of the crew cab. My best friend, Jessica—the same girl who’d thrown a tantrum and run off to California not long ago. Her hand was bandaged and strapped to her body in a sling. Bruises covered her face.

There was no sign of Painter.

Reese walked over to me slowly, glancing at the SUV parked in the driveway.

“He said you can borrow it as long as you want,” he said bluntly.

“Why isn’t he with you?” I asked, but I could already see the answer written across his face. Something had happened. Something bad.

“He’s in jail,” Reese said. “And I think he’ll be there for a while longer. He said to tell you he’s sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should write and ask him.”

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