July 20th, 1968. Two weeks after initial arrest.

  "I'd love to, Nana, but I'm only allowed to answer the phone right now." Quin twisted the cord around her fingers, how she wished she hadn't-of answered the landline. She could go places, her social worker for example, so long as they weren't places her friends might be. Quin hadn't wanted to leave the house since her arrest, conversing being a steady reason.

  "Well, I'll just come on the morrow, then. I need to stretch my legs anyhow. Expect me at noon, oh! And I'm bringing lunch. Don't forget to tell your mother."

  The soft hiss of the landline buzzed in her ear like a mosquito at night. "Love you, too," she muttered, placing the phone back in its cradle. She rested her forehead against the grey-tone-painted kitchen wall, trying to will herself into stillness.

  "Who was it?" Came her mom's voice from the next room, reminding her of the reason she'd leapt over the couch in the first place.

  "Just Nana!" she called back, unable to mask her disappointment. Looking down at the dark wooden floor beneath her blue-socked feet, she tapped her fingers against the tan plastic of the phone, counting out the seconds.

  Finally, she spoke

  "She's coming by around noon tomorrow. Said she's bringing lunch."

  With a small sigh, she pushed off the wall. Her hand lingered on the phone in silent debate.

  Then, click click.

  Her mother's heels crossed the threshold, causing her hand to flinch down to her side.

  "That woman and her demands." Her mom opened the fridge, speaking more to herself than Quin. "Did she say anything else?"

  "She wanted me to come over, originally—"

  That was enough for her mother to pounce. "And you didn't? Why not? She moved here for us, you know."

  Quin groaned, her hand swiped at her face as she turned to face the brunette fury. She leaned back on the pantry doorway, her words barely raised. "I didn't want to go alone, and I didn't really want to lea—"

  Her mother's red-nailed hand shot up past the fridge, silencing her mid-sentence.

  "You can't be anxiously depressed forever, dear. You just have to do it, sometimes."

  "I know," Quin muttered, "but now she's coming over here." The sentence summoned a mix between a scoff and gasp from her mother.

  "And that's such a bad thing?" Her mother's head snapped around the fridge door, one brow raised. "She's my mother. She's always welcome. Call her back, I want to ask what she's bringing. You're going to the store."

  "But, Ma—"

  "Nuh-uh. That's not what we're doing. You think I'm stupid? You dodged your grandmother and used this depression thing to avoid going out. You're going to the store. Go get yourself ready."

  Quin rolled her eyes, dramatized further by her mom's flailing red nails. She stepped to the pantry and grabbed a sleeve of wafers. "I'm taking these."

  "Does it look like I care? Gimme one before you go. That's the last bag."

  In seconds, her mother was in her space, reaching for the package. Quin tried to open the seal while keeping it out of reach.

  "Mama, wait—let me open it first! Ma!"

  Laughter cut through the kitchen as her mom snatched the opened bag, managing to take four wafers. Three others dropped to the floor.

  "Oh no! Grab more while you're out. I'll clean this up."

  Quin stared down at the fallen cookies, lips parted in fake outrage. "Give me that," she grumbled, snatching the bag back and frowning at what was left. "May I buy two more? For... collateral damage?"

  "Mm. Nah. Your father gets paid in a couple days. You can wait." Her mom popped another wafer in her mouth. When she'd eaten the first, Quin had no idea.

  "Go get ready. I'll have the list when you come back down."

  She was already being ushered out of the kitchen. As she walked away, she heard the phone dial again.

  "I'm taking a quick shower!"

  "The longer you take, the longer the list!" her mother sang, the rotary dial ticking away to her melody.

  By the time her mother finished the sentence, Quin was halfway up the stairs, flipping her off in the direction of the kitchen where she couldn't see. The shower didn't help. Spying on her mom's phone call afterward didn't help either, especially when it meant she had to wait to call her own number back.

  "Well, if he'd just invest in Donovan's plan, the—" click. Quin hung up the call.

  With plans now rearranged, she grabbed her coin pouch and tucked it into her matching purse. She checked herself in the mirror. Her head still felt loose, but her style made up for it.

  The pink-and-green oil-spill dress clung to her loosely, stopping a few inches shy of her thighs. It flattered her fluffy dark updo and made the green in her hazel eyes pop. Half belle-sleeves kept her warm against the wind, while the fabric was light enough for the heat. Her dark green leather bag; shiny, structured, and gorgeous, made her smile every time. Brown strap-on flats and knee-high socks helped conceal her unshaved legs and any dirt.

  She took a final glance and turned sharply, closing her bedroom door behind her.

  Her mother was still on the phone downstairs, now with the long cord wrapped around her like a snake. She stood on the far end of the kitchen scribbling into her notepad.

  "Mama, the list?"

  "I know..." she said, barely looking up. "Hold on. Quin's ready for her endeavor." She reached backward, holding out the list. "You have money, dear?"

  Quin shook her head.

  Her mom lifted a finger, shimmied to the kitchen table, and leaned over a chair to dig through her purse. "Well, yeah, but Robert wouldn't be okay with that. I'm not even sure Donovan would. The other shareholders wouldn't either," she said loudly into the phone before her words were cut short by the older lady.

  "Ma, that's not how that works—"

  "I KNOW HOW IT WORKS, I—"

  Quin winced as her mom slapped a hand over the speaker. "Ma! Stop yelling! You're so loud the neighbor's dogs can hear you!"

  Her mother rolled her eyes at her, mouthing this woman, then pulled the phone away from her chest long enough to hand over her wallet and list.

  "Only what's on the list. Receipt with the change, please."

  Quin skimmed it. "What about the wafers?"

  "If there's enough left over, go ahead. Fifteen-dollar limit."

  Quin shrugged, pecked her mom on the cheek, and headed for the door.

  "See you in a bit! Love you!"

  "Love you too. And Quin, honey; that dress needs shorts."

  Quin rolled her eyes and shut the door behind her, stepping out into her short-lived freedom.

  "Alright. Phone booth," Quin muttered, checking it off in her head like the first step of a plan she wasn't sure she wanted to carry out. Her flats crunched over gravel until the sound shifted to the dull clack of sidewalk. She could already feel the chill of the metal receiver in her hand as she spotted the wooden booth up ahead.

  Her fingers fumbled through her bag until they found the small slip of paper. ST6-3321 scrawled in hurried, messy cursive. She breathed in through her nose, her foot tapping the warped planks of the booth floor.

  The phone's lukewarm metal pressed against her ear as coins clinked into the slot. The rotary dial clicked, number by number, and the low, hollow ring filled the space. Quin's gaze darted outside the booth.

  "Davis residence. Michael speaking."

  "Mikey, it's Quin. Are you free?" She tried to sound casual, but her voice caught.

  "How free?" His tone made her shoulders drop. "Like, right now? My mom sent me to the store, so I'm free for a while." She hesitated her next sentence.

  "I need to talk to you. In person."

  Silence. Then, the sigh she'd grown used to. Heavy and annoyed. "Where are you?"

  "Near the grocery on 5th. The one my mom likes."

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "Okay." She hung up, her eyes clamped shut as she held her breath, then kicked the booth floor once, twice, three times. The pain in her toes forced her to stop. Brilliant, Quin. Already irritating him. She smoothed her hair in the glass reflection before stepping out.

  On her walk toward the store, a black-and-white muscle car caught her eye; windows down, vibrant stitched seat covers, empty. Quin quickened her pace.

  The store's open garage-style front spilled humid air onto the sidewalk. She grabbed a basket and started her mother's list. Ten minutes in, his voice came from behind her.

  "You know when I say fifteen minutes, it means you have fifteen minutes."

  "It's for Mama. Can't mess up her list," Quin said, eyes fixed on the shelves. His cologne wrapped around her in waves.

  "Let me hold that before you collapse." His hand brushed hers, and she let the basket go a beat too quickly.

  They moved down the aisles, Michael close enough that every impatient sigh tugged at her nerves.

  "What'd you want to talk about?" he asked finally.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Later." She dropped an item into the basket and kept walking.

  "You could've just said no, you know," she said, voice lighter but eyes steady on her.

  "You never call anymore; I haven't actually spoken to you in well over two months. Last time I even saw you, your dad was shoving you into the house."

  She smirked faintly. "You sound like a puppy."

  At checkout, Quin handed him an extra task, the wafers, all just to buy herself a few more seconds. But as they stepped outside, something slammed into her from the side. With words harsher than any punch.

  "Murderer."

  A middle-aged woman shielded her child, glaring inches from Quin's face as she flipped her head to the sound. The word echoed in Quin's skull until Michael's hand pressed to her back.

  "Hey. Ignore her. Get in the car."

  She slid into the passenger seat of his old Ford, glancing once more toward where the muscle car had been. Empty. Gone.

  The cold spread through her limbs. Shell. Just a shell. Jamie's death, the arrest, the whispers, it all stacked like lead bricks in her chest. She didn't even realize she was crying until the drops hit her skirting. Michael's arms pulled her in, his chest a steady drumbeat.

  When she finally sat back, buckled in by him, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

  They sat in silence until the words burst from her. "I need to talk to you."

  Michael looked at her, wary. "You've said that?"

  She gripped his wrist before he could shift into gear. "You didn't see me at the bonfire?"

  His brows knit; his eyes trained on her grasp of him. "Didn't see much of anything. Why?"

  "Because you and Ashlyn are why I got arrested."

  His gaze sharpened onto hers. "What?"

  "You both told police you didn't see me when you got back. That you only saw Ashlyn."

  He frowned. "I did only see Ashlyn." Quin needed to not beat around the bush, her warm-up was besides the point.

  She shook her head at him. Her breath carried her next sentence. "Well, Lyla saw me. We talked. She told me to run, said she'd tell you where I was."

  Silence, then: "She didn't."

  Quin swallowed, the memory crawling up her throat as she looked to the center console. "Yeah, I gathered that. There was also... She gave me something that night."

  Michael leaned in until she was forced to meet his eyes. "Gave you what?"

  Her tongue felt like live wire, her jaw spasmed before, "Spit it out, Quin."

  Her voice dropped. "A bag. Full of money. More than I'd ever seen."

  He stared at her like she'd sprouted another head. "And why are you telling me and not police?"

  "She told me not to. Said it wasn't safe. I didn't understand. I was scared and drunk and—"

  "You should've told them. That was my sister's last night alive, Quin!" His voice rose, jagged. Her bones nearly jumped from her skin as her chin tucked. "And you're telling me Lyla was walking around handing you—" He stopped, running both hands through his hair as he breathed in a deep, singular breath.

  The silence between them pulsed like a heartbeat.

  Finally, he said, "You need to talk to her. Find out exactly what that money was for."

  Quin nodded slowly, her pulse still hammering. "Yeah. I was- I will."

  "Before I do." His voice was gruff, a sharp warning that closed her throat. She didn't dare look at him, her legs felt like gelatin.

  Stowe High School, Junior year, November 1966.

  The gym was nearly empty, just Quin, Jamie, and a few echoing footsteps in the far corners. Quin was mid-story, her voice bouncing off the walls when Lyla's shout cut through the air.

  "Quin! Shut up!"

  Quin jolted but recovered quick as she glanced toward the disruption. "Or what? We're not even talking about you."

  Lyla crossed the floor like a storm in boots, long legs eating the distance, colorful clothes loud against the muted morning. "Oh, whatever, whore. I heard what you said."

  Quin straightened, shifting her weight as their eyes locked. "And what did I say exactly?"

  "That I've slept with half the school. That the football team took turns." Lyla's seafoam eyes scanned the shorter one. Up and down.

  Quin lips lifted slow, done with the fake friendship, the petty drug deals, the late nights Lyla had pulled her into. "Maybe you shouldn't have slept with my boyfriend."

  The punch came fast and sloppy, accompanied by a clipped, "I didn't!" as Quin ducked; Lyla's fist smashed into the brick wall. Her scream, sharp and raw, allowed Quin's instincts to take over when her gaze marked the arm above her head. Quin's elbow hit brick, then her fist met jaw.

  "Don't start with me, tweaker!" Quin's voice rang in the rafters. The open doorway was filling with students. Some were cheering. Most made sounds of shock.

  "You think I can't dodge a bad punch?!" Quin pressed forward. "You're the one who invited him over when I was asleep. You brought him into your bed!"

  "I didn't even—"

  "Shut up! I saw you!"

  Jamie's hand was suddenly on her shoulder, voice low. "Quin, let's go."

  Quin's chest heaved. She backed away, locking onto Lyla's hunched figure. "Learn how to throw a punch, trailer trash. And maybe lay off the snow while you're at it."

  The hall outside was chaos. Quin shoved her bag into Jamie's hands as her eyes locked onto an officer in the distance. "Locker. Yours, not mine. If the cops ask—"

  "I don't know a thing." Jamie's mustard dress disappeared into the crowd.

  Two resource officers closed in, a hand finding its way firm around her elbow as they escorted Quin into the office. Lyla in tow soon after, chin swelling, wrist cradled.

  The questioning was the same old routine. Names, landlines, who threw the first punch. Lyla lied. Quin corrected her. She admitted to calling her a whore but denied starting the football team rumor. She wouldn't go that far. Lyla stayed quiet when asked if Quin's version was true, her eyes spoke the words she wanted to spit; Quin fed off that look.

  The principal and Mr. Monroe, Quin's counselor, entered. Sending both girls into the hall. Lyla was whisked away by the nurse. Leaving Quin to stare at the office door in front of her as the overhead clock ticked the seconds away.

  12:28pm

  "Quin, what the hell? You were the fight?" Rose, an office aide, looked up from her desk. Quin hadn't even noticed the twin.

  "With Lyla." She gave a curt nod.

  Rose smirked. "She can't fight."

  "I know." Her lip tugged. "Didn't even hit me. Pretty sure she broke her wrist."

  They traded a few more hushed words; plans for later, Michael's shop then Quin helping Mrs. Davis with chores since Jamie was busy. Quin was halfway through a smile when Mr. Monroe's shadow filled the doorway.

  "Come on, Quindell. My office." The two girls gave a look before Quin drug her feet to Mr. Monroe's office.

  The door shut with a soft click, the sound somehow louder than the hallway noise outside. Mr. Monroe motioned for her to sit. His desk was neat, almost too neat, like the kind of order that came from habit, not peace.

  Quin sat, crossing her legs. "So, am I suspended or what?"

  He didn't answer right away, he barely looked up as he tapped his pen against a yellow notepad. "Depends. You want to tell me what's really going on between you and Lyla?" No thank you, Mr. Gossip.

  Quin leaned back, arms crossed. "We're not friends. Haven't been for a while."

  "That much I gathered." He studied her for a moment. "You've been in my office three times this month. Fights, cutting class, leaving school grounds. This isn't you Quin, and I'm starting to worry that this will affect not just your grades, but your standing with the school."

  Her jaw tightened. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think."

  Mr. Monroe's pen stilled. "I know you've been through a lot lately. I also know you're not telling the whole truth about last weekend with Lyla. Or what happened in Montpelier last month."

  Quin glanced at the closed blinds, the door, anywhere but his eyes. "She started it."

  "I'm not talking about the fight." His voice was softer now. "Ms. Davis's worried about you. Even Rose has mentioned it. And from what I hear, you've been spending a lot of time... with Michael, isn't it?" Rose was in for it for this.

  Her eyes snapped to his. "He's just a friend. Helps me out with homework sometimes."

  "And is he helping you stay out of trouble? Or in it?"

  The silence stretched long enough for the hum of the ceiling fan to fill the space.

  Finally, Quin shrugged. "Does it matter?"

  Mr. Monroe sighed, jotting something down. "I've heard some of the stories about him. How he had sent classmates to the hospital on separate occasions. He was taken out of football for getting physical with his opponents." She stayed quiet, her eyes looked to his tie instead of up. After their silence showed no give, he spoke. "Go back to class for now. But Quin..." He waited until she met his gaze again. She knew he wouldn't let her leave without at least some form of 'heart to heart'. "You can't keep dodging. It'll catch up to you."

  She stood, hand on the doorknob. "Yeah, I've been hearing that a lot lately. I should've let her hit me, maybe then she'd be in trouble and not me." She couldn't help the sly smile as it crept up her face. "Quin, come on. You know that's not the—" the latch of the door brought joy to her heart.

  When she stepped out, Rose gave her a look—half curiosity, half concern. Quin didn't say a word. She walked straight for the exit, the taste of the conversation lingering like metal in her mouth as her plans with Rose were about to change trajectories.

  Quin stood in front of the landline in her room, the black receiver heavy in her palm. She stared at it like it might reach out and bite. The dial tone buzzed in her ear before she set it down again, breathing through clenched teeth. Her thoughts circled each other like predators. How to even start, what to say, whether Lyla would even pick up.

  She lifted it again, pressed it to her ear, then dropped it to her side. A nervous huff escaped her as her free hand twitched and flicked in rapid bursts. Michael's threat rang through her ears. Finally, before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed.

  The ring seemed to stretch forever, each note tightening the knot in her stomach, until a faint crackle gave way to a voice.

  "Montgomery residence."

  Quin's throat locked up, the words snagging on the wall in her mind.

  "Hello? Montgomery residence, who am I speaking to?"

  "Is Lyla home?" Her voice was thin, careful.

  "Speaking." The crackle of silence broke through the other end. She hated silence.

  Her stomach bottomed out. "This is Quin... are you available to talk?"

  A pause long enough for her pulse to hammer in her ears, then the click of disconnection.

  She stared at the phone. Jaw tightening in frustration as she spun the dial again. This time Lyla answered instantly, venom already dripping.

  "I don't know what you want, fuck off! Don't involve me in any more of your—"

  "You involved me!" Quin snapped, the words out before she could temper them.

  "Ugh, stop with this! What did I do this time?" Lyla's voice was all teeth, the familiar twist of blame-shifting.

  "Why'd you give me the bag?" Quin's tone wavered, but her grip on the phone was white knuckled.

  A long silence. Quin's mind filled it with the sound of her own breathing, the echo of the interrogation room. I need answers.

  "You never even told Michael," she pressed, her voice fraying. "Please, I need to know what the money was for. The police—"

  "What money?" God dammit.

  "No, Lyla." Her voice cracked, her throat hot. "They think I killed—"

  "I don't know what you're fucking talking about. Don't contact me. Stay the hell out of my life; I don't know you anymore."

  The slam of the receiver rang louder than her own thoughts. Quin stayed frozen, her face twisting under the rush of emotions. Fear, shame, and the cold realization she'd never get straight answers from Lyla. Memories of that night blurred under a haze of alcohol and miscellaneous drugs; her own inaction stung worse than Lyla's betrayal. She'd let herself be dragged along before, let Lyla steer her into shadows she couldn't see out of.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  "Honey, supper is ready."

  Quin swallowed hard, lowering the receiver. She moved toward the door, her body feeling disconnected from her head, like she was floating. She opened it to her mother's warmth and offered a thin, practiced smile.

  "I'll be down in a moment. I'm a bit cold."

  "Alright, but you better come down tonight."

  "I will." Quin shut the door, letting the room's dimness close in again. She slumped into her vanity chair, catching her pale reflection in the muted glass as she looked into her own eyes. The sunlight through the curtains was just enough to see by as she slid open the drawer, revealing a flat box.

  She pulled out a baggie with just enough white powder left to take the edge off. Her pinky traced a ritual path; lick, dip, press to the back of the gums. The sharp, chemical sting made her eyes blink hard. Another dip. A little more numbness.

  The box went back into the drawer. Next to makeup and under scrap paper. She shrugged on her robe and drifted downstairs.

  Her father was at the head of the table, newspaper spread before him, glass of whiskey in hand.

  "Look who's decided to join us," he spoke, bored.

  She hated when he opened with that tone. It always carried the suggestion she'd failed before she even sat down.

  "Afternoon, Father." She didn't meet his eyes.

  Her mother set a plate in front of her, then one at the center of the table. Stroganoff. Comfort food.

  "I heard you went to the grocery store today," her father said, "You didn't see any of those degenerates, correct?"

  She shook her head, keeping her gaze on the steam rising from the food.

  "Good. You know better than to get yourself caught up in that."

  She thought about telling him the truth, that she was already "caught up" in something much worse, but there was no point. His version of morality had always been more about appearances than actual safety.

  Her mother's easy warmth softened the air, but Quin's headache was already shifting under the drug's bright hum. Colors seemed richer, the food almost... playful. She had no appetite, however.

  "Thank you for the meal," she murmured when she was done, pushing her half-full plate forward.

  "Sit for a moment," her father said as though the windows had aired the room. "We barely see you these days."

  That was rich, coming from a man whose affection was rationed like an expensive commodity. She sat back down, heart picking up pace under his gaze. Could he tell? Could she?

  "Your mother and I have been talking. We think it's time you spent your days doing something other than hiding in this house."

  "Okay... and?" She leaned back, trying to slow her pulse as she weighed his words.

  "We want you to work at the office. Back office. Files. You'd start in two days."

  Her mind snagged on the fact that he'd never wanted her involved in his work before. This wasn't about "opportunity," it was about containment. Keeping her within arm's reach so he could measure her every move. Why else would she be put in the back.

  "Sounds... fine," she said eventually. Can't refuse. "Maybe it's time I do something else."

  "Good. Get some rest."

  She stood, nearly tripping on her robe at the stairs as her mother looked up.

  "I'm good, don't worry," she called back, masking the slip with a laugh.

  The rest of the evening passed in a haze. By ten, she was sliding her backpack from under the bed, checking its contents and unhooking her window latch. The lattice was her old escape route, the creek bed her familiar cover. As her feet hit the ground, Quin's heart lifted for the first time that day. Not from joy, but from the simple relief of true, short-lived freedom.