Before she can confirm or deny, there’s a beeping noise. It’s her call waiting. The number is unfamiliar, but underneath the number it says: Nantucket, MA. Harper disconnects Rooster without explanation, without good-bye. Let him think she’s in a place with poor reception—the Andes Mountains, the Yukon. It’s the only way.

“Hello?” Harper says.

“Ms. Frost?” a man’s voice says. “This is Dr. Bentz. I’m the principal at Nantucket High School. I’m going to need you to come in right away.”

AINSLEY

Ms. Kerr doesn’t contact the classroom over the intercom. Instead she and Dr. Bentz show up at the door of Ainsley’s American history class in person.

“Ainsley,” Ms. Kerr says. “Come with us, please.”

A murmur goes through the classroom, and Dr. Bentz offers a game-show-host smile. “Don’t let us interrupt your learning about Prohibition,” he says. “It was put in place for a reason.”

Ainsley grabs her bag and slips past Dr. Bentz into the hallway.

Gathered in Dr. Bentz’s office are Emma and her father, Dutch; Candace, Stephanie, and Stu Beasley; and Tabitha. No, not Tabitha—Aunt Harper. Ainsley burps and tastes the eggs Harper made her for breakfast.

She tries to catch Emma’s eye. They are close enough as friends to be able to agree upon a strategy without speaking. But Emma’s face is cast down at the table. Dutch looks pissed. His shaved head is ruddy with aggravation, and his tattooed arms are locked across his chest. Candace looks wounded, her parents solemn. Only Aunt Harper appears sanguine. When she sees Ainsley, she offers a shrug—she has no idea why they are here—and a consoling smile.

The smile brings tears to Ainsley’s eyes.

Dr. Bentz takes the last seat at the table. He seems present and engaged but studiously unperturbed. He loves conflict resolution, Ainsley knows. A poster of Jimmy Carter hangs in his office.

“Emma, Ainsley,” Dr. Bentz says. “We invited you here with your parents and/or guardian today to see what either of you knows about a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and a baggie containing cocaine residue left in Candace Beasley’s locker.”

Ainsley says, “I know nothing about it. I mean, I heard Candace was caught with alcohol and drugs in her locker, but that’s it.”

Dr. Bentz studies Ainsley as though he intends to paint her portrait from memory. “You’re sure about that, Ainsley?”

Ainsley scrutinizes Dr. Bentz right back. He has an oversize head, a walrus mustache, and glasses that make his eyes appear large and gelatinous. Dr. Bentz is so thoroughly a principal that Ainsley has a hard time imagining him outside the school. She knows that he lives in ’Sconset in a home owned by his wife’s parents and that in the summer, when his in-laws are in residence, he goes salmon fishing on the Copper River, in Alaska. Ainsley feels sorry for Dr. Bentz because he doesn’t get to enjoy Nantucket summers; he must like his job a lot, because why else would he accept such a raw deal?

Before Ainsley can respond with a calm, metered Yes, I’m very sure—Ainsley has spent the last year making lies sound like the truth—Emma speaks up.

“It was all Ainsley’s idea,” Emma says. “Candace stole Teddy away from her, and Ainsley wanted revenge.” Shrug from Emma. “‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…’ That’s a direct quote from William Shakespeare.”

Dr. Bentz clears his throat. “Actually, it’s the other William. William Congreve. And the quotation, Miss Marlowe, is ‘Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d, nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.’”

Emma gives Dr. Bentz an indulgent smile, though Ainsley knows she would like to tell him to go pound. “Same difference!” she says, then she pauses for effect. “Back to my story. Ainsley stole the gin from her grandmother’s house, and the cocaine packet she got from Felipa’s boyfriend. Felipa is the housekeeper, from Mexico. Then Ainsley begged me to sneak both things into Candace’s locker.”

Ainsley feels a zing, like she’s been hit in the face at close range by a rubber band. “What?”

Dr. Bentz silences Ainsley with a hand. “And how, Emma, did you gain access to Candace’s locker?”

“She gave me the combination a few weeks ago,” Emma says. “I forgot my chemistry textbook at home, and Candace lent me hers as a favor so that I could finish that day’s assignments. I wrote down the combination.”

Dr. Bentz turns to Candace. “Is this true? You gave Miss Marlowe your combination?”

Candace nods, and Ainsley is so incensed—Emma and Candace are in cahoots—that she blurts out, “No, Emma. You stole the combination of everyone’s locker from the office during a fire drill in the fall.”

“I gave Emma my combination,” Candace says in confirmation.

Ainsley is silenced. She feels her aunt’s hand on her back. Harper leans in. “Just tell the truth,” Harper whispers. “It’s okay, whatever it is.”

“I stole the gin from my grandmother’s house,” Ainsley says. “But it was Emma’s idea, not mine, to plant it in Candace’s locker. Emma stole the locker combination of every student in the school from this office in November. She’s the one who brought in the cocaine packet. My housekeeper doesn’t have a boyfriend. Emma took the cocaine from her father’s jeans.”

At this, Dutch Marlowe stands up and roars. “Watch who you’re accusing, young lady!”

Everyone at the table, including Dr. Bentz and Stu Beasley, recoils. In these peace talks, Dutch is the renegade nation.

“Watch how you speak to Ainsley,” Aunt Harper says. Now she, too, is on her feet. “Your defensiveness tells me that you’re probably guilty, and your demeanor is consistent with someone who abuses cocaine.”

“Shut up, Tabitha, you stuck-up bitch,” Dutch says. “Why don’t you have your mommy call her lawyer?”

“Now, now, Mr. Marlowe,” Dr. Bentz says. “There will be no name-calling.”

“It was Ainsley’s idea, pure and simple,” Emma says. “I was wrong to agree to such a cruel plan, but Ainsley and I have been friends a long time…” Here Emma starts to cry, and Ainsley’s eyes grow wide at the sight. In the five years that they’ve been hanging out together, Emma has never grown weepy, much less shed a tear—not even when discussing her mother, who moved to Florida when Emma was in kindergarten and never returned. “And so I just went along with it, even though I knew it was wrong.”

“It was your idea,” Ainsley says. “You pulled that cocaine packet out of your front jeans pocket yesterday before school.”

“I’ve heard enough!” Dutch says. He glares at Harper. “You tell your daughter to stop accusing people of things they didn’t do!”

Dr. Bentz touches the knot of his tie. “What we have established thus far is that neither the alcohol nor the packet with the cocaine residue in it belonged to Miss Beasley.”

“Correct,” Stephanie Beasley says. Her hair is in a loose bun, and she’s wearing a gauzy sundress, looking pretty and natural and every bit like half of the kindest, most solid parental unit in all the world. Stephanie gives Ainsley a pained look. “I don’t know what Candace ever did to you. But you spent years making her life miserable, culminating in this regrettable stunt. The astonishing thing to me is that you thought you could get away with it. Because you’ve never been held accountable for any of the atrocious things you’ve done or said to people. And that”—here she looks at Harper—“is your fault, Tabitha.”

“I’m not…” Harper says, but then, apparently thinking better of it, shuts her mouth.

“This is my aunt,” Ainsley says. “Not my mother.”

Everyone at the table stares at Ainsley as if she has two heads.

“This letter, left at the nurse’s office,” Dr. Bentz says, pulling it out and setting it in front of Ainsley. “You wrote this? Saying that you’d heard Candace Beasley had alcohol and drugs in her locker?”