Except. A memory surfaces from the morning of Simon’s death, so seemingly insignificant that it hadn’t crossed my mind till now: Jake pulling my backpack off my shoulder with an easy grin as we walked down the hallway together. That’s too heavy for you, baby. I’ve got it. He’d never done that before, but I didn’t question him. Why would I? And a phone that wasn’t mine got pulled from my backpack a few hours later. I’m not sure what’s worse—that Jake might be part of something so awful, that I drove him to it, or that he’s been putting on an act for weeks.
