Dad pulls into our driveway and cuts the engine, slipping the keys from the ignition and turning to face me. “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?” I think back to the claustrophobic little room at the police station, my parents on either side of me as Detective Mendoza lobbed questions like grenades. Were you competitive with Simon? Have you ever been to his house? Did you know he was writing a post about you? Did you have any reason, beyond this, to dislike or resent Simon? My parents said I didn’t have to respond to any of his questions, but I did answer that one. No, I said then.
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