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Her mother would rage—that she could handle. But her Dad would be so disappointed in her, in them, and that shecouldn’thandle. They had to get this whole mess cleaned up like it never happened. They had twenty-four hours before Sophia and Leo got back. She had to fix this. She was going to fix it.
“Let me take you home,” said Hannah.
Libby’s head lolled. How much had she had to drink? Hannah shepherded Libby into her parents’ walk-in shower, where she helped the girl wash up, getting herself soaked in the process. Hannah watched as blood swirled the drain, then washed away. Then she helped Libby into her skimpy black dress, her shoes. The girl was so out of it, definitely not a good judge of what had happened between her and Mickey, right?
“I’m going to need help,” she said to Cricket, who sat in the chair over by the window. She had her head down in her hands, crying softly.
Mickey, naturally, was nowhere to be seen. Just like him to take off and leave her to clean up this mess.
“Cricket,” said Hannah, her voice sharp as a whip crack. “Help me get her home.”
Cricket nodded, looking up, mascara running down her cheeks. She got up and they flanked Libby and helped her down the stairs.
The house had quieted down. There were just a few people in the kitchen as they came down, practically carrying Libby between them.
“She iswasted,” someone said with a derisive laugh.
Mickey was in the hallway, fresh beer in hand, watching as they took Libby out the front door. He was dressed in fresh clothes, looked relaxed and happy, just another party, another Saturday night for Mickey. He and Hannah locked eyes. His face. She had never forgotten it—a lidded look of apathy, almost a dark glee. It sent a little pulse through Hannah.
He did it, she thought.He raped her.
But then the look was gone, and it was just Mickey sheepish and embarrassed. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
At the sight of him Libby started shrieking. “You raped me! You bastard!”
But people were drunk, and the music still blasted, and as Hannah and Cricket dragged her out into the night, no one acknowledged her or even looked in their direction for very long.
“Shh, shh, Libby,” said Hannah. “You’re okay. You’re just really drunk, okay?”
In the car, the girl just passed out cold across the back seat. Hannah covered her with a sweatshirt from the trunk—one of Mickey’s. They drove her home.
“He’s a monster,” said Cricket. “How could he do this to me?”
Hannah blew out a breath. “Toyou?”
Cricket gave her an incredulous stare. “Youdon’tbelieve her. She wasall overhim. She’s wanted himfor years.”
They drove in silence, the radio off, Libby breathing heavily in the back, the car winding through the dark rural roads. Just around a bend, a doe ran out into the street, pausing in the beam of Hannah’s headlights as she put on the breaks. She honked her horn, and the doe bounded out of sight. She drove more slowly. They did not need to have a car accident right now.
“You always cover for him,” said Cricket. She was resting her head against the window, looking like a sad clown with the mascara rivers and her hair wild.
“That’s not true.”
“He told me about Boots.”
Their mother’s cat. The cat had been ancient, no one even knew how old. Boots was mean, only liked Sophia. He bit and hissed and smelled horrible.
“Boots ran away.”
“He didn’t. Mickey told me what happened.”
Hannah gripped the wheel, stayed silent.
“He killed it, right?” said Cricket when Hannah didn’t say anything.
“It was an accident.”
She didn’t like to think about that, how she found Mickey in the garage with his friends, blood on his hands. And that smile, that same lidded look of dark glee.What? It was a science experiment. Now we know. Cats do not have nine lives.It was better if Mom thought the cat ran away. Hannah had almost convinced herself of that.
