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“Not. A. Word,” she tells me, one finger in the air.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t worry.”

It’s the closest I can get to an apology right now. My phone vibrates again. I glance at the screen to see two more texts from Bristal.

My money is on the attack tonight being connected to Denise Halverson.

But also, I’m super poor, so I don’t have a lot of money.

I grab my phone and leave the room to dial Bristal, ready to tackle at least one of the massive apologies I currently owe.

“Hey,” she answers right away. “You didn’t have to call, I was just getting my thoughts out.”

“And they’re interesting,” I tell her. “But we didn’t really dig all that hard trying to find Denise alive. Just because someone doesn’t use social media doesn’t mean they’re dead.”

“Nah,” Bristal says, her voice wavery. I wonder if she’s self-medicating after the at-home stitching session. “Denise would be on Facebook, throwing down on some Karens.”

“You don’t know that,” I tell her. “If you really want to dive into this, we’ll have to have something much more solid than your gut instinct on the internet behavior of someone you’ve never met.”

“I’m down,” Bristal says. “Whatever you need me to do. Just don’t make me look at microfiche.”

“So that would be step one,” I say. “Thanks for your help and vested interest.”

“No, I mean . . .” Bristal is quiet for a second. “Like, my eyes can’t track when the pages are moving, and all that. It gives me a migraine. When I get one I have to lie in the dark for six or seven hours to even be able to function.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Eh . . . you know, pride. Revealing your weaknesses. All that stuff.”

“You are not weak,” I say automatically, remembering the swollen flesh around her eye, and the blood filling her shoe.

“We still on for Far Cry Road–slash–bigfoot stakeout tomorrow night?”

“Ugh,” I say. “Sorry, but I doubt it. Mom and Dad are probably going to have me on lockdown after our front yard turned into a five-alarm.” And also, I strong-armed Mom into telling me her deep darks, so there’s that, too.

“So?” she says. “Sneak out.”

“Ummmm . . .” I glance into the living room, but Mom and Dad are out of sight.

“Seriously?” Bristal says. “You’ve got a balcony and you’ve never snuck out? Do you even have a vagina?”

“I have a vagina!” I assert, then check again to make sure nobody is anywhere within hearing distance. Low voices come from the kitchen, and I assume Mom and Dad are having their own hard-truth session.

“What about the interview with Dover?” Bristal comes back at me. “You know you need that material for the tornado episode.”

“Ummmm . . . ,” I say again. Bristal is smart to dangle the carrot of Dover Jamison in front of me. And while nothing Mom had to say about him was flattering, it didn’t dampen my interest in him. If anything, I’m even more invested in this person who treated girls as disposable . . . and then one in his immediate circle disappeared.

“C’mon, Lydia Chlamydia. Go over that balcony!” Bristal’s voice sails from the phone, interrupting my thoughts.

“How am I supposed to get down?” I ask.

“I’ll catch you.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell her.

“The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard is someone having an upstairs and a downstairs living room,” Bristal says as I head for my room. Of course she picked up on that.

“Fair,” I admit. “But seriously, what if I fall?”