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“No,” MacKenzie says sharply. “It’s about . . . Jesus, seriously? You don’t see it? You’re Lydia Chass and you can’t figure this out?”

“Can’t figure what out?” I ask.

“Who did this!” MacKenzie says, waving out the balcony. “I mean, Mom made one phone call and—”

“To who?” I demand, getting to my feet. “What did she find out?”

“That six stop signs were taken out of the ODOT garage last week. Know anybody that has connections there?”

“You’re not serious,” I say, ignoring the gaping hole that has just opened in my midsection and swallowed my heart. “Bristal would never—”

“Oh, of course!” MacKenzie yells, throwing her arms into the air. “Your best friend Bristal, who you’ve known for about a month and has a rap sheet, by the way.”

“Your mom shouldn’t tell you her parolees—”

“Screw that!” she says, kicking my bed. “Oh God.” Her face contorts, and MacKenzie goes down. “I think I just broke my toe.”

I watch her cradle her foot, then rock back and forth over it, mewling like a kitten. In third grade, she had insisted on being driven to the emergency room for a thorn in her foot, so I’m not too concerned. MacKenzie’s pain tolerance is about as high as an unconscious ant.

“You’re fine,” I say, but I join her on the floor and stick a sequined pillow under her foot.

“Sorry about kicking your bed,” MacKenzie, says palming tears off her red face.

“It’s okay. Karma caught up fast,” I tell her. “Better?”

“Yes.” She nods, dead serious. “The sequins helped.”

“Look,” I say, leaning back against my bed. “What you’re saying about Bristal makes sense, okay? I see it. She’s a career criminal, and she had access to the signs. But there’s no motive.”

“What do you mean?”

“No reason for her to have done it,” I explain.

“I know what motive is, jackhole,” MacKenzie says. “I mean more, like, how do you not see the motive? Your parents are singing her praises all over town. Badass Bristal jumped out the window and chased down the person who threatened your family. She’s a hero—”

“Heroine,” I correct.

“And she’s got one of the best families around eating out of her hand.”

“But you said it yourself,” I counter. “She chased down whoever did it—and got her ass handed to her. Bristal’s eye was swollen shut, and that gash on her cheek was no joke.”

But MacKenzie shakes her head. “Bristal doles out and takes beatings all the time. She had to make it look legit, and she knew exactly how.”

“I don’t buy it,” I say, getting up from the floor and looking out the window myself, taking in the six dark sentinels now standing in our yard, the yellow crime tape twisting in the breeze.

“Why not?” MacKenzie asks, wincing as she puts weight on her foot and joins me.

“Because I . . .” My voice fades out, catching in my throat. “Because I just don’t think Bristal would do that to me, okay?”

“Wow,” MacKenzie says. “I never thought I’d say this in my life.”

“Say what?”

“Lydia Chass, you’re being stupid.”

Twenty-Six

Bristal’s escape plan works perfectly. I land in a crouch on our front porch, the tarp covering what used to be our bay window billowing in the breeze. It’s chilly, and past midnight, Mom and Dad turned in a long time ago, and the Dayforths’ motion-sensor light points in the other direction—toward the neighbors they trust less, I assume. I pick my way over the gravel to my car and ease the door open, covering the overhead light with my hand, like Bristal had said. I ease the transmission into reverse, and my car begins a slow roll to the end of the driveway.