In the end, a paramedic gave her a shot of Haldol. She drifted back to earth like one of the flowers that had fallen from the dogwood that night. Her father’s strong arms were wrapped tight around her, and his coffee breath fell onto her cheek. “Meggie,” he said, his voice broken. “Who?”

They were not speaking of the same thing, not at all, and in some small corner of her mind Meg knew this. But as her eyes drifted shut, as she fell headfirst into that night again, she murmured, “It could have been me.”

It was the first time that Gillian had been in Matt Houlihan’s office without her father sitting beside her. Granted, he was only a hundred feet away in the waiting room, maybe even had his ear pressed to the door, but the privacy was empowering. “I hope you feel comfortable being here alone with me,” Houlihan said.

What a sensitive guy, Gillian thought. Making sure the rape victim isn’t threatened by a Big Bad Male and a small closed room. She looked into her lap. “I’m okay,” she said.

“The reason I asked to speak to you without your father present is because of some new evidence that I thought you might feel more comfortable discussing in private.”

Every cell in Gillian’s body went on alert. She froze, waiting for him to speak again.

“Detective Saxton found a thermos and some cups in his daughter’s room, Gillian. Meg said they belonged to you.”

Gillian was so relieved that this was the crucial evidence, she nearly laughed out loud. “That’s true.”

“Did the residue of drugs in the thermos and cups belong to you, too?”

Gillian blinked. “What drugs?”

“Atropine. It’s a prescription drug . . . that can also make you high.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, according to Meg, you’re the one who brought the drinks that night. Atropine and all.”

The bitch. “Meg said that?” Gilly managed, her voice so tight she thought her vocal cords might snap like the strings of a rock guitar. “I would never bring drugs. I would never do drugs.” She laughed, but it sounded forced. “Mr. Houlihan, I’ve grown up around pharmaceuticals my whole life. My first memory is of my dad telling me to say no to drugs.” She looked toward the waiting room. “Go ask him if you don’t believe me.”

“If you didn’t bring the atropine, who did?”

“I have no idea,” Gillian said. “Probably Meg.”

“Meg’s father is a policeman. Presumably, she’s heard the same party line as you.”

“That’s not my problem,” she snapped.

Houlihan sighed. “I couldn’t care less who’s the dealer here, Gillian. That’s not in the least important to my case. What I need to know is if you drank any of the tea that night.”

Before Gilly could answer, the telephone rang. The county attorney picked it up, spoke for a moment, and then turned, apologetic. “I have to see someone before they go off to trial,” he explained. “Will you excuse me?”

Two seconds later, Gillian was alone in the office.

Had she taken the drugs that night? Well, of course. But hearing that wasn’t going to make Houlihan happy. Someone who took a hallucinogen wasn’t a reliable eyewitness.

Then again, it had been nearly six weeks. No drug stayed in your system that long, especially one ingested in such a small volume. Houlihan could draw blood this instant and never know if Gillian was lying.

The ER had drawn blood.

The memory hit her; the doctor drawing vial after vial. Chewing on her bottom lip, Gillian stared at the folder on Houlihan’s desk.

It took her less than a second to decide to open it. The front page gave the lab results from the rape kit. She skimmed the odd numbers and phrases until she came to the typing for VICTIM, KNOWN SAMPLE. And all the drugs for which she had tested negative.

Atropine wasn’t on the list . . . but it hadn’t been flagged in her system, either.

She slid the folder back on the edge of the leather blotter just as Houlihan came in. “I didn’t drink anything,” Gilly said.

“You’re absolutely certain?”

“Yes. Meg borrowed my thermos, but she brought iced tea. I hate iced tea.”

The lawyer studied her, then nodded, satisfied. He opened a drawer of his butt-ugly metal desk and began to unravel a silver ribbon. “You have any idea what this is?”

“No,” she said, letting it slide through her fingers. “Where did you find it?”

“With the thermos and cups.”

“Well,” Gillian shrugged. “Then it must be Meg’s, too.”

Addie came into the diner after the dinner rush to find Darla playing chess with her father in the kitchen. “You’re back,” Roy said.

An apron-her father was wearing an apron. Before she could get past this startling fact, Darla was in her face. “I had to work double shifts, on account of Delilah getting sick, and don’t think I’m not expecting time and a half.” Turning to Roy, she said, “Check,” and then sashayed into the front room.

“Look at you,” Addie said, swallowing past the sadness in her throat.

“Yeah.” Her father laughed, twirling like a beauty queen. “Go figure.”

“First time I up and leave, you go . . . you go . . .” That was as far as she got, and then the tears came. Exhausted, tired from putting on a brave face for Jack, she moved into her father’s embrace, which had always been the softest spot in the world.

“Ah, Addie,” he said. “I’m sorry about him.”

Addie drew back. “He’s innocent, Daddy.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because,” Addie said, “I’m the only one who thinks so.”

Roy walked to the stove, then poured her a bowl of potato leek soup. This he set down in front of his daughter with a spoon. “Eat,” he ordered.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He lifted the spoon to her mouth, made the soup trickle down the constriction of her throat. “Isn’t that fine?”

Addie nodded and lifted the spoon herself. Meanwhile, Roy moved around his kitchen, heaping potatoes and steamed carrots, breads and stuffings and gravies, all onto a tremendous platter. He piled it high with starches and placed it in front of Addie.

This time, she didn’t even hesitate. She tucked into the meal with a hunger she had not even known she’d had, until her belly swelled. “Better?” he asked.

Addie realized she no longer hurt inside. She imagined all these soft foods, rices and puddings and couscous, forming an extra barrier within. Her father had filled her, because he knew better than anyone that the best way to prevent a heartache was to cushion the coming blow.

“Relax,” Gillian said, looking at each of her friends. “They don’t know anything.”

They were sitting in a small garden behind the Duncan household, one hidden from public view by a thicket of roses. “My dad is gonna kill me,” Chelsea said. “If he finds out there were drugs there-”

“Why were there drugs there?” Whitney demanded. “I’m a little curious, Gill, since you were the one responsible for bringing the refreshments.” The others looked at Gillian, too. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t have tried it . . . but I would have liked to have had the choice.”

“Whit, don’t be such a priss. It was a pinch of stuff, so little that it wouldn’t even affect you. God, you’d have gotten more of a buzz from a wine cooler.” Gillian stared intently at the others. “Think hard. Do any of you remember getting high that night?”

“I was dancing around without a shirt on,” Whitney hissed.

“Before you drank a damn thing,” Gilly pointed out.

Meg’s eyes were dark, striped with betrayal. “My dad says it screws up the case.”

“Matt Houlihan doesn’t think so,” Gillian said.

“Only because you told him that the drugs were mine. If a jury hears that you were stoned, they’re not going to believe anything you say.”

“I wasn’t stoned, Meg. No more than you were.”

“Then how come I have to be the fall guy?”

Gillian narrowed her eyes. “Because if you don’t, it’s going to hurt all of us.”