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Amber Blake is having dreams, and they just might be the key to saving her best friend, Mark.
Unfortunately, she's too preoccupied pretending to hate the boy next door, Carter Hayes. Secretly hoping to rekindle what once was, Amber atte...
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It's brutal.
Dragging the details of the CPS visit out of Ronnie takes nearly an hour with little to show for it. If anything, I'm more confused now than when he started. As fucked up as my memory is, I would remember Mark being taken away, which makes me think Ronnie could be crossing some wires. After his claim about Carter, it's more of a hope.
I rub a hand over my face to help fight off exhaustion.
"Your dad," I start, but my throat is too dry. I'm tempted to ask for water, but I swallow past it, not wanting to break his concentration. "Did he come so they wouldn't take you?"
"Yes."
"And Mark never told me." I don't pose it as a question. I've come to learn that's pretty on brand for Mark. "How old were you when this happened?"
He doesn't blink, his eyes still on the window. "Nine."
"But didn't you say Carter called them?"
"Yes."
"That can't be right, Ronnie." I push away from the chair, anxiety yanking me to my feet. "You have to be remembering something wrong. Carter would've been barely twelve. Shit, he probably didn't know what CPS was back then, much less how to call them. It's just not something a kid would—"
The sentence dies in my throat. I realize it's not Ronnie who's remembering wrong; it's me. At twelve, Carter wouldn't have known to call CPS about Mark's home life. A kid wouldn't think of that.
But a parent would.
"You know why they stopped being friends."
"Worse. I was part of the reason."
Julia's face by the fire flashes back to me. There was no denying the guilt in her eyes that night, but without context, I couldn't understand why. After Ronnie's recount, now I know. She made the call that almost destroyed a family, the call that ultimately guaranteed it years later. This is what broke Carter and Mark apart.
This is the falling out.
The whole room spins. My stomach curls in on itself until it's nothing more than a pit. Staggering over to the window, I claw at the sill, desperate to pry it open. I'm too hot, and if I don't get fresh air soon, I'm afraid I may actually vomit.
