She dialed Kevin Ryan’s number. He answered the phone on the second ring.

“Hi, Mr. Ryan,” she said. “Moira Windsor here.”

There was silence for a beat, before Kevin said anything. “Moira,” he said coolly, “I thought I was clear the other day.”

Moira drummed her chipped nails on her out-of-town aunt’s kitchen table, where she’d set up her office.

“You were, but I was hoping you’d change your mind. I really want to do a good job. You were young once. You know the importance of a good story, how it can help you.”

Kevin hesitated again as he contemplated an answer that would shut her down and get her to go away. “I don’t want you writing about something so personal and tragic,” he finally said.

Wrong answer.

“Look who’s calling the kettle black,” Moira retorted. “You’ve made big bucks off writing about crime victims and their families. Always there with the personal detail.”

“This is supposed to win me over? You really need to work on your technique, Moira.”

“How about your wife? Maybe I could talk to her?”

“Maybe you should just go away.”

“Your girls? They’re fifteen, almost adults. They can decide if they want to talk,” she said.

“Stay away from them,” he warned, his voice louder than necessary. “Stay away from my family.”

Moira fired back. “That sounded like a threat.”

“Not a threat. Just a request.”

Kevin hung up. He wondered how many times he’d made someone else feel like Moira Windsor had just made him feel: defensive, angry, and worried.

chapter 16

WHEN STARLA WAS CALLED OUT OF Washington State history class last fall, she had no inkling Katelyn Berkley, her soon-to-be former BFF, was responsible for the bomb that would be dropped over her perfectly highlighted head.

After Starla was confronted by the principal, her boyfriend, Cameron Corelli, drove her home and screeched his rebuilt Bimmer to the curb. Starla mashed Cam’s face and jumped out of the car. She strode angrily past Katelyn, who had lingered in the front yard waiting for her return. Starla had no idea Katelyn had wanted to say so many things but couldn’t.

Sorry.

Didn’t mean it.

Forgive me.

Or … You deserve it, bitch.

Starla didn’t even return Katelyn’s gaze. If she had, she might have seen a trace of sadness, remorse. It was as if Katelyn were a sheet of glass and Starla Larsen looked right through her.

Katelyn was nothing.

Starla had no clue when she stomped past her friend that Katelyn would sequester herself in her upstairs bedroom. That she wanted to cry, but no tears came. That she knew her betrayal was so great, Starla would never forgive her. That she loved Starla and hated her.

Starla would never know that Katelyn kept an online journal in which she admitted to giving the principal the incriminating photo out of spite. Because she wanted to be just like Starla, but couldn’t—and was losing her.

Starla would never know any of this because in a few short weeks, Katelyn would be dead.

“SHE DID WHAT?”

Mindee Larsen had just come home from work, smelling of hair product, toxic chemicals, and her pack-a-day menthol cigarette habit. She threw her oversize purse onto the kitchen table and looked directly into Starla’s eyes.

“You heard me, Mom. She reported me to the school cheer coach. It was total crap, and it’s all Katie’s fault.”

“Yes, I heard that. I needed to hear it again because my brain isn’t knitting the information together. Why would she do that? You’re her best friend. Start from the beginning.”

Starla wanted to say something about her mother’s inappropriate knee-high boots and shimmering top, but she thought better of it. She wanted her mother to know what she was up against, and as far as advocates went, her mom was basically all Starla had.

“The beginning of what? When we were best friends?”

“Today. What happened today?” Mindee went to the refrigerator and filled a glass of wine from the boxed sangria that always commanded most of the top-shelf real estate.

“Okay, you don’t have to be so bossy,” Starla said, sliding into a dining chair while her mother took a seat across from her.

“I’m a mom,” Mindee said, adding without a scintilla of sarcasm in her voice, “bossy is what I do.”

“Can I have a sip?” Starla asked, mostly to needle her mother. She hated any wine that could stain her teeth. Sangria was right in the middle with a rosé, her buzz wine of choice.

Mindee shook her head. “No. You can’t. Now, tell me what happened.”

“All right,” Starla said. “From the beginning …”

IT WAS 1:30 P.M. ON AN EARLY FALL DAY the week before homecoming in the very middle of state history class, a requirement that brought most students to the brink of the abyss called boredom. Teacher Relta Cox liked to “celebrate” the lives of people who had made their mark on Washington, but the reality of it was that students sitting in front of her didn’t care one bit about early explorers, native people, or pioneers who settled the region back in the days when it was called Oregon Territory. They might have been more engaged if the discussion veered toward the ritzy house that Bill Gates owned near Bellevue, or how much dope Jimi Hendrix smoked on any given day, or some tidbit about Starbucks when it was cool and not just a Denny’s that served only coffee drinks and pricey pastries.

The rest of the stuff, forget about it.

A boy from the principal’s office, who no doubt asked to be the bearer of the message since it was going to Starla Larsen, entered the classroom, spoke with the teacher, and then handed a paper to Starla. She looked down, shook her head, and got up to leave. The girl knew how to own the room. She wore a leopard-print tank, black Capri pants, and a gold choker that looked very, very expensive. Her purse was a black Michael Kors that her fans knew was her go-to bag. Starla’s outfits made her the best-dressed girl in school. Starla scanned the classroom as her long legs moved toward the door to the hall. Her eyes lingered only a second, and on only one person.

Katelyn Berkley! She’d made good on her threat.

When Starla arrived in the principal’s office that afternoon, her fears were confirmed. Seated across from Principal Andrea Sandusky was the cheer coach, Lucy Muller, a young woman with long, dark hair, a bad overbite, and the kind of strong, lithe body that suggested her past as an Olympic gymnast hopeful. As a high school principal, Ms. Sandusky never smiled anyway, so her grim face offered no tip-off of what was to come.

“Starla, I’ve asked Ms. Muller here because a situation has arisen that calls into question your ability to stay on the cheer team.”

“What is it?” Starla said, trying to not to crumble. Even being somewhat prepared was not enough to ensure that she’d be able to keep it together. She had wanted nothing more than to be the youngest Buccaneer varsity cheerleader captain in the history of the team. She’d been the only freshman to make the squad and was well on her way. The honor would surely be hers. She deserved it.

Not everyone deserves all good things, but I deserve this. This is mine!

“We have high standards here at Kingston,” began the principal, who apparently had just finished a spinach salad because her left front tooth was covered with a fragment of a mossy green leaf. “We’re proud of our students and consider them to be ambassadors of our school in the community.”

“Yes, Ms. Sandusky,” Starla said, trying not to look like she was staring at that green tooth, but she was. “I know. I get that. I am the best ambassador for this school.”

Andrea Sandusky rolled her tongue over her tooth and sucked.

Got it.

“I thought so too. But something has come to our attention that has given us great concern about you.” She stopped and picked up a manila folder. In a flourish that would have impressed most defense lawyers, she pulled out a single 8 × 10 photograph. Then, as if it were laced with poison, she set it on her scrupulously neat desk, faceup. It depicted Starla with a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other.