August. In August, Shelby had texted her a photo of Tanner holding up a crawdad from the creek. In August, Kristen had sent back three laughing emojis and a heart. In August, she and Brock had gone to the Fourth of July makeup barbecue at his brother's, a month late because of the rain, and he had been quiet all afternoon and told her it was his shoulder.
"How long," she said. Her voice came out wrong, too even. "How long has he known."
"Since that night. Since August the ninth. He drove up that night. He was here by midnight." Jolene hesitated. "Kristen, I'm going to say something and you're going to hate me for it, and that's all right. I've been hated by better. But your sister is out there somewhere tonight with three weeks of being clean and no tolerance left, and that is the most dangerous combination there is. Whatever you need to do about the rest of it, I need you to do it later. I need somebody who knows her."
Kristen looked at the tiled floor. Somebody had dropped a single silver earring by the drain, and she stared at it, at the little butterfly back still attached.
"I'm two hours away," she said.
"I know where you are."
"I'm coming."
"Good," said Jolene. "Good. I'll put coffee on. Kristen? He didn't want to do it this way. I want you to know that. Whatever else is true."
"I'll be there by nine-thirty."
She hung up. She did not hand the phone back. She stood and picked up her own bag, the small one, and her car keys from the hook by the door, and only then did she look at Brock.
He had sat down on the opposite bench, as if his legs had stopped agreeing to hold him. His hand was over his mouth. He looked up at her and dropped it, and his face was the color of wet paper.
"She asked me," he said. "Kris, she begged me."
"Get in the car or don't," Kristen said. "I'm driving."
"I can drive. You're shaking."