didn’t know why she had. She didn’t know why these so-called friends of hers—alleged friends, as in provable but not proved—were even mentioning beer in a TM. Didn’t they know everything could be traced?
UOK?
Y WONT U TALK?
She wouldn’t talk, because her mother was still with the police and Mr. McKenna was at the hospital and it was all her fault—and nothing her friends could say would make it better.
It was another hour before the state agents dismantled their lights, and a few minutes more before a tow truck arrived. Deborah knew the driver. He worked at the service station in the center of town and was a frequent customer at her sister’s bakery. That meant Jill would hear about the accident soon after she opened at six.
Brian drove her home, pulling into the circular drive and, at her direction, past the fieldstone house to the shingled garage. She was exhausted and thoroughly wet, but as soon as she had closed the cruiser door and was sprinting forward hugging her medical bag and Grace’s books, she opened her phone and called the hospital. While she waited for an answer, she punched in the code for the garage. The door rumbled up as the call went through. “Joyce? It’s Deborah Monroe again. Any word on Calvin McKenna?”
“Hold on, Dr. Monroe. Let me check.”
Deborah dropped her armload and hung her slicker on a hook not far from the bay where her car should have stood. Leaving her flip-flops on the landing, she hurried inside, through the kitchen to the laundry room.
“Dr. Monroe? He’s in stable condition. They’re running tests now, but the neurologist doesn’t see any evidence of vertebral fracture or paralysis. He has a broken hip. They’ll deal with that in the operating room once this last scan is done.”
“Is he conscious?” Deborah asked, back in the kitchen, drying her arms with a towel.
“Yes, but not communicating.”
“He can’t speak?”
“They suspect he can but won’t. They can’t find a physical explanation.”
Deborah had run the towel over her face and was lowering it when she spotted Grace in the corner. “Trauma, maybe?” she speculated. “Thanks, Joyce. Would you do me a favor? Let me know if there’s any change?”
Still dressed, Grace was hunched over, biting her nail. Deborah pulled the hand away and drew her close.
“Where were you?” the girl asked meekly.
“Same place.”
“All this time?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why did the police drive you home?”
“Because they don’t want me driving my car until they’ve examined it in daylight.”
“Isn’t the cop who drove you home coming in?”
Deborah drew back to study her face. They weren’t quite the same height, but almost. “No. They’re done for the night.”
Grace’s voice went up a notch. “How can they be done?”
“They’ve asked their questions.”
“Asked you, not me. What did you tell them?”
“I said we were driving home in the rain, visibility was terrible, and Mr. McKenna ran out from nowhere. They’ll have to go back along the road in the morning to see if there’s anything they missed that the rain didn’t get. I’ll file a report at the station tomorrow and get the car. Where’s Dylan?”
“He went to bed. He must have thought you were home. What do we tell him, Mom? I mean, he’ll know something happened when he sees your car missing, and besides, it was Mr. McKenna. This is such my luck that it was my teacher. I mean, like, I’m so bad at American history, people will think it was deliberate. What do I tell my friends?”
“You are not bad at U.S. history.”
“I shouldn’t be in the AP section. I don’t have a prayer of placing out when I take the test in June. I suck.”
If she did, it was news to Deborah. “You tell them that we couldn’t see Mr. McKenna in the rain, and that we weren’t going very fast.”
“You keep saying we.”
Yes. Deborah realized that. “I was the licensed driver in the car. I was the one responsible.”
“But I was the one at the wheel.”
“You were my responsibility.”
“If you’d been driving, the accident wouldn’t have happened.”
“Not true, Grace. I didn’t see Mr. McKenna, and I was watching the road as closely as if my own foot was on the gas.”
“But it wasn’t your foot on the gas.”
Deborah paused, but only for a minute. Slowly, she said, “The police assume it was.”
“And you’re not telling them the truth? Mom, that’s lying.”
“No,” she said, sorting it out even as she spoke. “They drew their own conclusion. I just haven’t corrected them.”
“Mom.”
“You’re a juvenile, Grace,” Deborah reasoned. “You were only driving on a permit, which means that you were driving on my license, which makes me responsible. I’ve been driving for twenty-two years and have a spotless record. I can weather this better than you can.” When Grace opened her mouth to protest again, Deborah pressed a hand to her lips. “This is right, sweetie. I know it is. We can’t control the weather, and we can’t control what other people do. We were compliant with every law in the book and did our very best to stop. There was no negligence involved on our part.”
“What if he dies?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does? That’s murder.”
“No,” Deborah argued, though the word murder gave her a chill, “it would be vehicular homicide, but since we did absolutely nothing wrong, there won’t be any charges.”
“Is that what Uncle Hal said?”
Hal Trutter was the husband of Deborah’s friend Karen, and while neither he nor Karen were actually related to the Monroes, they had known the children since birth. Their daughter, Danielle, was a year ahead of Grace.
Deborah saw Karen often. Lately, she had felt more awkward
