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  I stared at him. “Because that matters right now.” Besides, I’d bet my pom-poms that Paxton would have a “miraculous” recovery.

  “Look, Miss Whitfield, whatever grudge he might have against you, Paxton Callaway didn’t set any fires,” Mr. Prichard said. A sliver of doubt burrowed into me, but I ignored it.

  “His car wasn’t in the drive on Friday night,” I argued.

  “They have a three-car garage.”

  “He could have--”

  “Stop.” Mr. Prichard took off his thin-rimmed glasses. “His alibi is airtight, Miss Whitfield. Pinning this on Paxton Callaway is not going to work.”

  “You don’t believe me.” I felt about to hyperventilate. I’d underestimated Paxton, thought I could just poke holes in his story and the whole façade would collapse, but now I didn’t know what to do.

  For a second, I entertained a horrid thought: maybe it wasn’t Paxton. Maybe he really had sprained his ankle, and some mysterious person out there hated me so much they’d gone to the trouble of planting my fingerprints and setting fire to the Appleton’s boat. That theory was too chilling to contemplate, though, and I shut it down. The simplest explanation was also the most reasonable: it had to be Paxton.

  “I’m your lawyer,” Mr. Prichard said. “It’s my job to believe you. But it’s also my job to keep you out of jail, and I can’t do that if you go around accusing people without cause.”

  Hold the truth like a shield. “I didn’t do it.” I was already getting really tired of saying that. Mr. Prichard sighed.

  “When they picked you up Saturday morning, the police had a warrant to search your house. By the back door they found a container which held traces of gasoline and two burned matches.”

  “The container is probably what I used for the gas I siphoned from Paxton’s car. I don’t know where the matches came from.” I had a thought. “Look, Paxton’s family has the keys to our house, in case of emergency. He could have--”

  “Miss Whitfield.”

  “Was the back door locked?” Mr. Prichard glanced at his notes, then shook his head. I sat up straighter. “See? Maybe I forgot to lock up. Anyone could have come in.” Which was beyond creepy, but I rushed on. “So the container ...” I’d watched my share of crime scene procedurals. “Circumstantial evidence, right? And maybe the matches have someone else’s DNA on them.”

  Mr. Prichard’s mouth was a thin line. “Your shirt and the print on those photos put you at the scene at the time of the fire. The photos also give you a pretty strong motive. With the gas and matches ...” He shook his head. “To be perfectly honest, if this goes to trial a first year law student could get a conviction.”

  I sat in mutinous silence. “Let’s go talk to your parents,” Mr. Prichard said, but I stayed put. He went into the living room.

  I stared at the kitchen table as though the way out of this mess was hidden in the wood grain. Panic threatened again, but I closed my eyes and ran through cheer routines in my head until it backed off. Lawyers were supposed to believe their clients, right? But Mr. Prichard clearly didn’t. I wondered if I should ask for another lawyer, but I bet my dad got a discount on Mr. Prichard’s services because of the Club connection. And besides, why would a new lawyer believe me either? I had to admit, I couldn’t look more guilty if I had set the fire.

  It didn’t matter. I’d figure this out without my lawyer’s help. Feeling silly sitting by myself, I went into the living room.

  “I’m working on a deal with the Appletons,” Mr. Prichard was saying. “Considering Rose’s age and the provocation, I might be able to talk them out of pushing for jail time.” That made me picture Ryan’s parents, who’d always seemed to like me. His mom, at least. Ryan’s dad was one of those businessmen who conduct hostile takeovers. Was he the one who had to be talked out of sending me to jail? I wondered wildly if maybe he’d done this himself, if he secretly disapproved of Ryan’s and my relationship and this was how he was getting rid of me. Ryan & Rose, Ltd., liquidated by Appleton Corp.

  Dump the paranoia, Rose. Money payoffs were more Mr. Appleton’s style. This was too elaborate to be anything but a carefully planned prank by my dear neighbor jerkwad.

  “No one cares that I’m innocent?” I flung myself onto the couch.

  “Rose, right now we need to deal with getting the felony charges dropped and off your record,” my dad said. “Imagine what they would do to your Harvard application.”

  After that I didn’t say anything. I didn’t hear much either, going into zombie-mode as I ran through possible ways to prove Paxton was faking his ankle sprain. My parents and Mr. Prichard talked about me like I wasn’t there. Finally, Mr. Prichard shook their hands and left.

  I stood up and slipped my phone from my pocket.

  “What are you doing?” my dad asked.

  “I was going to call Ryan again.” But my dad shook his head sternly.

  “Mr. Prichard says no calling the Appleton’s, no emailing, no harassment of any sort. They’re already on the verge of issuing a restraining order.”

  “But--”

  “Rose. Mr. Prichard is trying to keep you out of jail. Please don’t make his job any harder.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll see Ryan in school tomorrow anyway.”

  My mom made a moue of concern.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t have to go to school tomorrow. It would be so awkward.”

  “I’m going.” Staying home would only make the rumors worse.

  My mom bit her lip. “Oh, Rose,” she said, and suddenly she was hugging me. Her satin blouse was suffering dire wrinkles, but for once she didn’t seem to care. Surprised, I hugged her back. “I know you think he’ll stand by you if you forgive him for those pictures,” she said, “but high school boys are idiots.”

  I disentangled myself from the hug. “Mom. I am being framed for a felony, and you’re worried about whether my boyfriend will dump me?” That was my job. And I wasn’t worried. Ryan was the one who should be concerned, if he couldn’t explain the photos to my satisfaction.

  Alright, I was worried that Ryan hadn’t called back, but maybe his lawyer had forbidden him from talking to a suspect. That had to be it. Although I would have thought my soulmate might bend the rules for me. My mom’s suggestion that the pictures meant exactly what they implied, that my whole life with Ryan might have torn apart already and I was just naively holding onto threads, scared me.

  Escaping upstairs, I called Alina for the umpteenth time, and was almost shocked when she picked up.

  “Finally,” I said. “I was starting to think you’d vanished into the fairy realms.” Alina loved fantasy novels, but only if they featured a love story. Preferably in triangle form. Alina was quiet so long I wondered if my cell reception had nosedived. “Can you hear me?”

  “You have a lot of nerve, calling me.” Her voice was low. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes Alina acted like the float builds were as intricate as brain surgery, and twice as important.

  “Look, in case you’ve been living on the float all weekend, some major shit is being dumped on me right now. I spent all Saturday morning in jail.” I started pacing my carpet.

  “Good. It’s where you belong.”

  I stopped dead. What had gotten into her? “Oh, I didn’t realize I was talking to Alina’s evil twin. Can you please put Alina on the phone?”

  “Funny. Know what’s not funny? My dad was on his boat Friday night. You knew that.”

  “What?” I sank onto my bed. “Oh, no. Your boat slip is next to the Appletons’.”

  “A fact you should have considered.”

  “Alina, you know I’d never light anyone’s freaking yacht on fire.” I yanked the irritation from my tone. “Is your dad okay?”

  “He could have died, if the fire wasn’t caught in time. If it h
ad reached the engine room, Ryan’s boat could have blown up and sunk my dad’s boat too.”

  That was sort of far-fetched, from what my lawyer had told me. By the time the fire department arrived, most of the flames were out and the seats were all soaked, indicating that the arsonist put the fire out him- or herself before leaving. The only thing still burning had been trash in a metal can, which could have spread but wasn’t likely.

  That wasn’t the point, though. Alina had always been overprotective of her parents, and now she thought I’d nearly killed her dad. I started to shake.

  “I didn’t do it, Alina.”

  “Ryan showed me the evidence. And maybe you’ve forgotten about the voicemail you left me. You said you were going to do something crazy. Well, good job on the crazy.”

  “That wasn’t--”

  “He could have died!”

  I launched into a tirade about my innocence, but when I got no response I checked my cell phone’s screen. Alina had already hung up.

  How could she think I’d do this? The planted fingerprints were convincing, sure, but Alina knew me. At least, she should. I took several deep breaths to calm down. Paxton had gift-wrapped my fabricated guilt, and I was caught in the ribbon. But Alina was my best friend. Tomorrow I’d explain it to her, and once she realized who was really behind the fire, she’d help me clear my name.

  Against the two of us, Paxton didn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter 5

  Whoever said everything looks brighter in the morning was demented. I woke up Monday with my teeth clenched and a headache already starting. Jumping jacks in my room usually banished any nervousness, but today they only made me feel worse. My stomach was filled with knots, and I had this horrible feeling I was going to throw up.

  Last night my course of action had seemed simple: convince Alina I was innocent, then clear up both the arson charge nonsense and the Cheating Pictures uber-nonsense. But today none of it seemed like nonsense. My aching body was telling me I was in deep trouble, and I’d better stop pretending otherwise and deal.

  I took extra care with my hair and makeup, because holding the truth like a shield was only going to get me so far today. Truth was, I looked guilty. I couldn’t even hope no one at school had heard. A reporter had called late last night--I’d heard my dad slam down the phone--so I was pretty sure the story had spread through Petalina like lava.

  In the kitchen, I made coffee, took two ibuprofen tablets, and forced a slice of buttered toast down. My mom didn’t get up until nine--beauty sleep and all--and my dad was already at work, but instead of peaceful the kitchen seemed merely empty. And somehow, at the same time, too full. Of my lawyer telling me I was going to jail unless he could cut me a deal. Of my dad telling me it was my fault no matter whether I’d actually set the fire. Of my mom looking out the window, as if what she didn’t notice never happened.

  Pouring my coffee into a travel mug, I grabbed my bag and escaped outside to Cloudmonster. The cool leather seats were like a balm. Ensconced in my absolute favorite spot in the world, I finally allowed myself to think about the part that hurt the most.

  All yesterday I’d made excuses for why Ryan hadn’t called or texted or emailed, but his silence stank like bat guano. It felt so unreal. I still couldn’t bring myself to believe the pictures, not until I’d talked to Ryan. There had to be something going on beyond the obvious. But his silence, plus the fact that he’d told Alina about the “evidence” as if he hadn’t even considered I might be innocent, made me feel like fire ants were eating me alive. And Alina. She leapt to conclusions sometimes, but I had to make her understand. Surely, with the night to think it over, she’d started having doubts. As deep a bond as I thought Ryan and I shared, Alina had known me much longer.

  I was even a little hurt about Paxton going to such lengths to frame me. Sure, I’d made him fail the calculus quiz, but a felony charge was a drastic escalation, to say the least. I hadn’t realized he hated me that much. It made me worry I didn’t see things clearly, which in turn made me even more worried that Ryan wasn’t who I thought he was.

  Maybe Paxton wasn’t behind the fire. I’d considered it again last night, wracked my brains to think of someone else who had both the motivation and the brain capacity to pin something as serious as arson on me. I’d come up empty.

  Finally I had to get going or be late. You can do this, I told myself, and pictured myself in cheer uniform executing a perfect toe touch jump. Rah rah, let’s go. I took a deep breath and drove to school. My usual parking spot was filled, of course, with Alina’s Jaguar, and I wasn’t about to steal one of my friends’ spots, so I had to park in the junior lot, farther away. I barely made it to my locker on time.

  In the halls, people whispered as I passed. My cheeks blazed. On Friday, everyone had assured me that my Homecoming Queen vote was locked up. Today no one would meet my eyes.

  As I stepped into homeroom I noticed that Elizabeth Thrasher, fundraising coordinator of the Honor Society and a regular at Alina’s sleepovers, had swiped my usual desk. I pinned her with a what-the-hell look, but she glanced over at Alina and stayed put.

  I turned to my best friend, who was busy texting.

  “Criminals sit up front,” Alina said, not looking up from her phone.

  “Class, take your seats,” Mrs. Narimore said before I could launch into my spiel. I wasn’t about to sit in front after Alina’s jibe, so I slapped my notebook on a desk at the back.

  After class, I tried to head toward Alina, but Tiffany Becker barred my way.

  “Alina doesn’t want to talk to you,” she said.

  “Well, I want to talk to her.” I tried to squeeze past, but Tiffany played basketball and was quick to block me. “Tiff, seriously, quit it.”

  “Or what? I don’t have a boat you can torch.” She glared at me as Alina and Elizabeth walked towards the door, only moving once they’d left.

  I fumed silently on my way to Spanish. My best friend had obviously suffered no doubt about judging me guilty without trial, and anger kindled in my stomach. I built it up, because it was better than succumbing to the fear that Alina might never believe me, might never give me a chance to change her mind.

  In Spanish, Francesca and Georgette broke off their conversation when I walked in. My spine went cold--seeing the girl who’d been with Ryan in those pictures made them seem way too real. Francesca looked nervous. Guilty. Georgette held her pen tightly, like she was ready to defend her twin from attack, but I stalked by without a word. I could feel their furtive glances all period, but I sat rigidly, never once looking their way. I remembered how Francesca wouldn’t meet my eyes last Friday, and felt sick. I had to talk to Ryan pronto.

  I saw Paxton once in the halls as he swung around on crutches. Our eyes met, and if there was any justice in the world my glare would have blasted his assuredly unnecessary crutches out from under him.

  I nearly ran the last few steps to English class, the only period Ryan and I had together. My breath caught when I saw his casually mussed hair. When he turned toward me, time seemed to pause--but then Ryan’s green gaze dropped away. I noticed he was sitting on the far side of the classroom. He’d changed his desk. None of the seats around him were free, and as the rest of the world crashed in on me again I realized everyone was staring.

  I’d waited so long to talk to Ryan, but now that we were in the same room I trembled too hard to even speak. I slid into my chair and buried myself in my notebook, feeling like someone had poured gasoline all over me. I could barely breathe. Oak tree, oak tree, oak tree, pounded through my head. Ryan should be falling all over himself to convince me the pictures weren’t what they looked like.

  But he wasn’t. In his eyes, I’d read all the confirmation I’d feared. I’d given Ryan every benefit of every doubt, but he hadn’t even talked to me before deciding I was guilty, because he thought
I’d caught him.

  Cheating.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to speak to Ryan at all. I felt stupid, like I’d been so focused on building a wall of ice blocks I’d missed the fact that I was in the Sahara.

  By lunch, my nerves were scraped raw. When I entered the cafeteria, I spotted Alina at our usual table. She met my gaze, then got up and headed toward the line. Alone. It was as good an opportunity as I was going to get.

  “Alina,” I called, but she kept walking. I jogged to catch up. “Talk to me, dammit.”

  She stopped beside a table of girls I didn’t recognize.

  “I don’t care how good your apology is, Rose Whitfield. Go away. I’m not friends with criminals.” The girls at the table next to her watched us with wide eyes, like frightened mice.

  “You’re the one who owes me an apology,” I snapped. I hadn’t meant to lash out, had meant to present a reasonable argument for my innocence, but I was humiliated I had to beg my best friend to even listen to me. “Look, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t light Ryan’s boat on fire, and I didn’t endanger your dad. How can you not believe me?”

  “The evidence doesn’t lie.”

  “I’m being framed. The evidence is faked.” I drilled my gaze into Alina’s. “You of all people have to believe me.”

  “Me of all people?” Alina laughed, but without amusement. “For years, I’ve watched you pull your little pranks. What did you say rule three was? Oh, yeah: deny everything. So you pretending innocence doesn’t fool anyone, you homicidal psycho bitch. Least of all me.”

  Taken aback by the force of her anger, my voice faltered. “Paxton is the one who did this. He’s framing me because--”

  “Can it,” Alina snapped. “Your stunt could have killed someone, and you don’t even have the decency to own up and apologize.”