Chapter 12: The Question

Whitley was already sitting in the managing director's office when we got there.

She had the good chair, crossed legs, a manila folder on her knee.

Her eyes were rimmed in pink.

"I'm so sorry to do this," she said. "I thought Anson deserved to know."

"Out," Anson said.

"I'd stay," said the managing director, from behind her desk. She did not look happy. "She says it's about the post."

"It's about the truth."

Whitley's voice trembled prettily.

"Callie told you she made up one story. I couldn't let her tell you half."

My heart stopped.

I looked at Anson.

He was watching me, not her, and I knew he had seen it in my face.

"Callie," he said quietly.

"Don't read it."

"Why?"

"Because it's six years old, and I was twenty-two, and I was ashamed."

Whitley held out the folder.

Anson took it.

I would have given anything in the world to be able to move.

Inside were three printed sheets, with a thread of messages on each.

I knew them by heart.

He read slowly, standing in the doorway with the folder open in his hands.

I watched the page reach him.

I knew exactly where he was.

The first message was from two weeks after the party, a Friday in late December.

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