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“How’s your mom doing?” Bristal eventually asks.

“Not so good,” I tell her. “Everything knocked her flat on her back, and now with me leaving for school in the fall . . . I just don’t know.”

“Think she’d want me to come around? I’d be happy to go over and see her every now and then, unless . . . I mean, if she doesn’t want to see me, I’d get that.”

“No, I think it would be good,” I tell her. “And I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

“Yep. Thanks for shooting your dad instead of me.”

“Oh my God, could you—”

I turn to look at her, but Bristal’s smile is infectious, and I end up laughing. How, after everything, I don’t know. But Bristal Jamison can still make me laugh. I sigh, and lift my hair off the back of my neck, where sweat is trailing.

“What about you?” I ask. “I heard some broadcasting schools reached out?”

“They did, but . . .” Bristal shrugs, avoiding my eyes.

“But what?”

“But a lot of things. Couple of them offered free tuition, but I still gotta cover room and board, plus get my ass out there and back.” She looks off into the distance, eyes squinting against the sun.

“We could’ve paid for that,” I tell her, and she snorts.

“Hate to break it to you, Chass. But that’s not true anymore.”

Bristal’s right. With Dad stripped of his license to practice law, there’s no money coming in. And even though he can choose to represent himself in his own criminal case, we need to hire someone to defend us in the civil case that the Milhaus family brought against us once they learned that my dad had been driving the car that night thirty years ago. They knew there was blood in the water and thought it smelled like money. Chass money . . . even if that money no longer exists. Turns out we’re not the only family in Henley with a completely legendary fortune.

“We still could have helped come up with something,” I tell her. “I don’t want to see you let an opportunity—”

“See, that’s where you’ve got it all wrong,” Bristal interrupts me. “I actually like it here. Henley’s my home, and being a Jamison means something now. Well, something different, anyway.”

“I thought you might say that,” I say, reaching into my pocket for an envelope. “I brought you something.”

“Awwww . . . is it a graduation present?” she asks, taking it. “Because you didn’t need to spot me a card and twenty bucks. You shot your dad for me.”

I roll my eyes at the continued jabbing. “Just open it.”

She does, unfolding the pages of neatly typed, notarized documents. “What’s this?” she asks, looking up.

“I had Judge Whiteside draw up a formal agreement. On the Ground in Flyover Country belongs entirely to you now.”

“Seriously?” her eyes light up, scanning the pages.

“Yes. I mean”—I sigh, hating to admit it—“your episodes are the ones bringing in the most downloads. People love you, and yes, you’re right. We should’ve monetized a long time ago. So, it’s yours now. Do with it what you will.”

“Dude,” Bristal says, her wrist wraps blowing in the wind. “I kind of want to hug you right now.”

“Go for it,” I say, arms out. She walks into me, her skin hot from the sun, sweat dripping from her hair onto my neck.

“You stink,” I tell her.

“Yeah, I’ve been experimenting with organic deodorant,” she says, stepping away and raising her arm to sniff her armpit. “It can’t keep up with me.”

“Organic deodorant, seriously?”

“Yeah, I don’t want boob cancer.”

“But you vape?”