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“Mmmm,” Dover says, a nonanswer that gets me nowhere. But I don’t need an answer to my next question; in fact, I don’t even need to listen to his words. All I need is his reaction.

“Did you start young? Did you practice on Denise?”

“What the fuck, Lydia?” Bristal full-on shoves me this time, but I keep my eyes on Dover’s.

The smile is back, slow and feral, spreading ear to ear.

“Sorry, ladies,” he says, crossing his hands behind his head. “I’m afraid I can’t say anything more without speaking to my lawyer first.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” I say, just as steely. “Who’s your lawyer?”

The smile spreads, the well-laid trap sprung. “Your dad.”

Twenty-Nine

“What the fuck?” Bristal is on me the moment we’re through the door, the guard giving us a wary glance as she trails me to the curb.

“Hey!” she yells, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me around. “Seriously, what the fuck, Chass?”

“Oh, come on,” I shout, my own temper flaring. “It never occurred to you? Not once? Dover is the only person Denise was known to associate with—a guy that goes on to become a felon and is incarcerated for domestic abuse?”

“He is not the only person she hung out with,” Bristal shoots back, madly thumbing through her phone and raising it to show me the picture of Denise, Dover, and my dad.

“One picture,” I tell her, raising a single finger. “One picture, one time. My dad’s name never came up when we talked to David Swinton or when I talked to Erin. She hung out with a Jamison—that’s what they said, and that’s all they said.”

Bristal is seething, her hair a dark storm around her head as the cold wind whips it, her black eye bulging as a tear leaks from under the lid.

“Right,” she says, her voice cracking a little. “Of course, and who is the more obvious choice here? The Jamison or the Chass? You don’t know shit about shit.”

“Go ahead!” I yell, crossing my arms. “Go ahead and make your case. Do it. Right now. You can make it about public perception and socioeconomic levels, predisposed notions about family names and the plight of the poor. Stitch it all together and make it look pretty, but in the end—do you think it was the lawyer or the felon?”

“Fuck you, Lydia.”

Bristal isn’t crying anymore. Her face is cold and stony, the heat of anger replaced by the chill of resentment. Brandon Childress told me to fuck off at the blood drive, and I didn’t feel it, partly because he didn’t mean it, not all the way. Bristal means it. Right here, right now. I can see it in her eyes.

“Fuck you,” she says again. “I asked you from the beginning—at what point am I sacrificed at the altar of your success? Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long, little miss class president.”

My blood goes cold, even though my pulse has picked up a beat. “What do you mean?”

Bristal smirks, aware that she just dealt a blow. “I saw you throw the votes in the dumpster,” she says, her voice low. “I was out at the track, picking up trash for my community service, when the service doors came crashing open and out comes Lydia Chass. I didn’t even know your face could look like that, twisted and pissed like a bear that just got poked. And you did, didn’t you, Chass? The senior class wanted to oust you as president in favor of Brian Phillabrant, but you weren’t about to let democracy stand in the way of the real winner, were you?”

“Don’t,” I say, my own voice low as Kenzie pulls up to the curb. “You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Bristal asks. “Let your perky little friend know who you really are, underneath the GPA and the volunteer spreadsheet?”

I move closer to Bristal, panic squeezing my throat. “Brian plays baseball, and the senior class president is in charge of prom. He can’t even remember to get his parking pass—he would have done a horrible job handling his season and planning prom at the same time. It would have been a disaster.”

“Maybe.” Bristal shrugs. “But I don’t give two shits about prom. I’m pointing at you, making decisions about what you think is right—and that’s you, winning. Every time. Even if the rest of the world disagrees.”

I look over to Kenzie’s car, where she waits, window up, silently observing our standoff.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask, a gust of wind tearing at my words.

“I already tried that once, remember? I ratted you out in kindergarten and nobody believed me, because you’re a Chass and I’m a Jamison. I might not have a long line of college degrees in my family, but I learn fast. And I think the lesson is over here. I’m done.”

“Wait, what?” I ask, any fear I had of Bristal outing me as an enemy of democracy overwhelmed by something larger.

Bristal throws her hands in the air, disgusted. “What did you think I was going to do? Be like: You totally used me to get to my uncle and accuse him of murder. But that’s okay, it’ll make good material for the podcast. I understand. No!” she says fiercely, shaking her head, her teeth chattering as the wind tears at her slim jacket. “It’s not fucking okay, and I’m not playing. Fuck you. Fuck the podcast. Fuck graduating. Fuck Henley. I’m done.”