I breathe in sharply. Nothing about Poppy would have led me to what I now realize is coming.
“He got caught, of course. Heshouldhave gotten caught. It was reckless and wrong of him.”
“He did time?” I ask, a tight feeling coiling in my chest.
“He was sentenced to fifteen years.”
My jaw falls open.“Fifteen?Half of the murderers onBeyond Justicedon’t even get that long.”
“I know,” Poppy says, her voice running on empty. A car passes on the other side of the freeway, and its headlights catch the unshed tears in her eyes. “It was his first offense, and most of the money was recovered. But the judge still gave him fifteen years—the maximum, so he could ‘make an example out of him.’” The quiver of her chin sends a stab of pain to my gut. “It ripped my family apart. They seized everything to pay off my dad’s debts, and my mom and I were forced to leave our house and move into a crappy apartment we could barely afford. We had nothing. No money, no insurance, no friends. We became total outcasts. Everyone shunned us, as if a gambling addiction that could drive a mild-mannered accountant to commit an escrow scam was somehow contagious.”
“Poppy, I’m sorry,” I say, still stunned. What a broken system: the man who attacked my brother did no time, but Poppy’s dad did fifteen years. I’m sick. “Is he home now?”
“His release day is this week, actually. That’s the, uh, party I’m going home for,” she says with a strained smile. “Before he was put away, he was so fun-loving and easygoing. But everyone abandoned us after he was arrested. My mom was so angry and hurt, she divorced him. I can’t blame her, but he had no one. So I promised myself I’d be the one person who stayed by his side.”
Her face screws up like the emotion is too much to contain.
“We started planning his release party during my freshman year. My mom met someone online and married him my first semester. She waited until I was settled, and then she moved down to Florida with her new husband and his kids. I couldn’t wait for my dad to come home, so I insisted we start planning his party.” She exhales, her thumbs rubbing the steering wheel. “It’s so weird talking about this with someone.”
“We can stop,” I say, but the second the words leave my mouth, she flinches slightly, like a door closing halfway. “But we can keep going, too,” I add quickly, leaning forward, alreadywishing I could take it back. My fingers tap restlessly against my knee.
I’ve shut her down, so I’ll need to prod to open her back up—something I typically avoid.
“Do you … do you think he deserved to do time?”
She inhales slowly. “He did wrong, and he needed to pay for what he did. But a maximum sentence for a first offense and a family ruined? No. None of us deserved that.”
She’s right that he needed to pay for what he did. I don’t feel my normal fire compelling me to tell her that, though. I stare at her, at the way passing headlights illuminate her face. The light catches the wetness in her eyes, and I can see how her expression shifts between determination and vulnerability. I don’t know which is braver.
I don’t know which makes me want to squeeze her hand more.
My hand twitches toward hers, so I ball it up and shove it back in my hoodie.
“So this is why you wanted the Fairhaven Hazings over the Jensen wire fraud case?” I ask.
“You’re smarter than you look.”
I bark out a laugh. “Wow. I look that dumb, huh?”
“No,” she says with a half-smile that feels like her best impression of a smirk. “You don’t look dumb. You kind of act dumb, though.”
“Not sure when we resorted to name calling.”
“Really? ‘Elf on the Shelf?’”
“You’re like four feet tall.”
“I’m five-one and a half, thank you very much. You know the average height for women in this country is only five-three and a half? I’m barely below average.”
“Nuh-uh. Two inches is not ‘barely below average. A guy who’s five-eleven gets no love. A guy who’s six-one, on the other hand …”
“Are you kidding? What woman cares if a guy is over six feet?”
“You’re messing with me, right? Have you ever been on the internet? I’m six-four, and I’m still not tall enough for some women.”
“Then those women are lame. Not because they’re rejectingyou—that’s probably advisable—but because that’s stupid.”
“Wow.” I shift in my seat, the chocolate milk catching up with me. “Rejecting me is ‘advisable?’ Really?”
