I met Macy when I was six.

Before that, I hadn't even known she existed. She lived across town from me, and she'd been homeschooled by her parents. But after her dad had a freak brain aneurysm, her mom realized she couldn't keep up with her job and continue to educate Macy by herself.

So, two weeks after her dad died, Macy enrolled at Hanover Elementary, walked into Mr. Arson's kindergarten class and sat her pink-dressed butt next to me.

A few days after she started school, I sat next to her at lunch. She had on capris and a purple shirt that reminded me of Daphne from Scooby Doo so I asked if she wanted to play dodgeball with me. When she didn't immediately say no (she also didn't say yes, but hey, I was five) I grabbed her by the hand and yanked her toward the dodgeball court.

We became friends quickly after that. While everyone else treated Macy like she was made of glass, I acted like she was any other kid. I never slowed down, never asked if she needed a break and never considered that she might have cried herself to sleep every night (which, later, I'd learn that she did).

By the time we were eight, Macy and I were inseparable.

I'd known Lucca for as long as I could remember, but he was going through a girl-hating phase. Of course, Lucca and his little brother still came over at least a few times a week for dinner, slinking through the backdoor like the neighborhood boys might notice them entering a girl's house and quarantine them since they'd undoubtedly come down with a case of the cooties.

At that point, I didn't care if Lucca would rather spend time with the boys. I loved having a girl best friend. Boys had begun to look more like things I wanted to kiss than chase, and I much preferred painting my nails than gallivanting in the dirt. I was sincerely thankful to have someone around that got me.

Macy understood a lot of things that Lucca never would. She had gotten boobs before I did, so by the time I called her sobbing about bras, she was ready with a training-bra in hand, tissues under her arm and a bag of chocolate in her purse. Macy was a Girl Scout, only better. I got my period, first, and when the time came for Aunt Flow to visit Macy, I was the one prepared.

I could only imagine the carnage that would come with talking to thirteen-year-old Lucca about my period; there would be blood, sweat, and tears, most of which came from Lucca, who'd probably sob himself into a puddle of nervous sweat. I'd be the one bleeding, of course.

For the time that I had Macy, I was possibly the happiest girl in the whole world. I had a guy best friend that was perfect for when I wanted to explore the woods around our town and a girl best friend that I could gossip and giggle with as we shook our pom-poms on the sidelines of the football field.

And then high school came.

Our friendship fell apart in less than three months. One day, Macy was my best friend and the next, she dropped out of cheerleading, started hanging out with Gretchen and her cohorts, and then hooked up with my boyfriend under the bleachers while I cheered just a few feet away.

I hardly cared about Seth, since he was just a stupid boy who had sweaty palms and used more hair product than I did, but Macy was my best friend.

So while I screened my calls, made my dad answer the front door and hid behind Lucca in the school hallways, I waited for Macy to get the hint that our friendship was over. Four months later, the phone calls stopped, the doorbell stopped ringing, and I didn't have to avoid Macy anymore; she stopped coming around.

I never once considered what it would feel like not to get to say goodbye to her, though.

Instead of going back to class, I went straight home after I left the principal's office

. I knew it made me look guilty, but I couldn't handle being in that school a moment longer.

Reyes's words kept bouncing around in my head. Did he really think I killed Macy? And, if so, why? Where was the motive? She slept with my boyfriend three years ago—if I was angry enough to hurt her, wouldn't I have done it then?

I couldn't shake the look on Johnston's face when I left the office. He didn't look a bit like the kind, friendly guy that brought me cupcakes from the golf course after hanging out with my dad. He looked just like Reyes—like he had already decided I was guilty and was just waiting for me to admit it.

What exactly did they think they had on me? As far as I was concerned, all I had done was hurt Macy's feelings, and while that was rude of me, it didn't make me guilty.

By the time I got home, both my parents' cars were sitting in the driveway.

I sat in my car for almost ten minutes, dreading the moment I'd have to go inside and talk to them. There was something inherently humiliating about telling your parents the police thought you'd murdered someone.

My conversation with the Sheriff and Reyes didn't add up. As far as I had heard, Macy had vanished without a trace. What kind of evidence did they have that would make them think she was dead—and that I had something to do with her death?

Glancing at my house, I noticed the curtain in the living room window move. Apparently, my presence had not gone undetected.

Knowing I had to face the firing squad sooner or later, I hopped out of my car.

I was walking up the driveway, rooting through my purse, when I heard it.

Click.

I froze at the familiar sound. Out of the corner of my eye, a dark shape lurked at the edge of my house.

My head snapped to the side. There was no one there, but I knew what a camera sounded like when it went off.

I stared so hard my eyes started to blur. There was nothing there—except for my overactive imagination. God, I must've been going crazy. Why would anyone be hiding out in my backyard taking pictures of me?

Even knowing there was nothing there, I couldn't shake the feeling I was being watched as I approached the door.

Click. I looked up again, chills sweeping over my body. Okay, there was nothing there, but I had not imagined that sound.

There was another click, and I practically leaped over the bushes to get to the door. Once inside, I slammed it shut behind me and double checked the locks.

"Oz?" Mom called. I heard the creak of a chair. I had no doubt that my parents had rushed to sit down at the table to make sure they'd appear casual. As if they weren't waiting for my arrival. "Is that you?"

Get yourself together, Buchanan, I scolded myself. I cleared my throat before finally speaking.

"Yeah, it's me." My voice sounded shaky, even to me.

"Can you come in here?" Dad asked, and I suspected he was talking through gritted teeth, especially when Mom whispered, "Henry, stop clenching your jaw like that. You're going to break your veneers again."

In the dining room, my parents sat on the opposite side of the table, smiling at me.

"How was your day?" Dad asked, grinning cheerily, even though I could tell he wanted nothing more than to grit his teeth.

I folded my arms across my chest. "I guess you guys heard."

Mom sighed loudly. "Jesus, Oz, you certainly waste no time getting down to business."

"I was just accosted by some seriously misguided cops," I said, grabbing one of the chairs and slamming my body down into it. I glared at my parents. What was the use of having lawyers for parents if they weren't around when the police decided to interrogate you? "I'm in no mood for small talk."

"Of course." Dad rolled his eyes. "Hey, honey." He looked at Mom. "Did you know that a few months ago, our daughter turned eighteen, which means that the police are not required to notify her parents that she's being interrogated?"

"Why, honey," Mom said, equally as upbeat, "yes, I did know that, because anyone with common sense knows that!" This last part was, of course, directed toward me. Mom turned her head to stare at me, eyes bugging out of her head. "I also know that if I were being interrogated, I would immediately invoke and call my lawyer! Because that's what a smart person does!"

"Okay." I put my hands up. Being raised by two lawyers had definitely given me an edge; I was as a good a liar as they came, but in all honesty, I hadn't once thought about calling my parents, even though I had wanted them there. "Look, I didn't realize I was being interrogated until it ended, alright? If I had known from the beginning, I would've called you."

"What, reading you your rights didn't give it away?" Dad raised one eyebrow, clearly annoyed.

"No one read me my rights." I rolled my eyes. "That's why I didn't think it was an interrogation. They were just trying to scare me."

Mom shook her head. "Are you okay?"

I frowned. "Not really."

Dad sat back and kicked his feet up on the chair next to him. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like I just got run over by a semi-truck," I admitted. "Did the Sheriff tell you..." I trailed off.

"I don't think they honestly believe you hurt Macy," Mom said, filling in the silence. "They're just...fishing."

"But why?" I asked, hurt clogging my throat and making my voice come out odd. "They think that if they accuse me of murder, I'll somehow tell them what they want to know? Because I don't know where Macy is. I don't."

"We know that." Dad shook his head. "But the police, for whatever reason, think you know something you're not telling."

"Like what?" I threw up my hands in exasperation. "When would I have had time to find anything out? Macy went missing on Saturday. I just talked to the police. It's not like I've been avoiding them."

"Right," Mom said. "That's why we're going to plan a meeting with the police, and you're going to arrive with proper legal representation, and we're going to sort this whole mess out. Alright?"

My shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank you."

Even though I was eighteen years old and on my way to being a high school graduate, I was happy to let my parents handle this one.

Apparently noticing the look on my face, Dad pulled his feet off the chair and reached across the table to lay his hand on my hand. He squeezed it and smiled at me in that Dad-way. "You're going to be okay, kiddo. We got you."

"Maybe you should go rest," Mom offered. "You've had a long day."

"Thank you," I said again.

I pushed back from the table and grabbed my bag on my way out of the room. I was halfway up the stairs when Mom poked her head out of the dining room and smiled at me. "I forgot to tell you that you're grounded for skipping class without permission."

u