“Six weeks,” I said.
“Six weeks,” Jonathan said.
I laughed once, and it came out wrong.
“You knew for six weeks. You sat across from me at lunch. You asked me to prom. You let me put on my mother’s hemming and walk into that gym and stand there while Tatum Brantford stepped on my flowers.”
“Laney—”
“Every time they said you were doing community service, you knew you were the son of the man who st*ole from me.”
“I wanted you to have one good night,” he said. “Before everything.”
“That wasn’t yours to decide.”
Silence.
He didn’t argue.
He only lowered his head.
And I realized, with a sick drop in my stomach, that the glances at his phone all night had been texts from the detective.
At 5:50 he had written: He’s moving tonight.
His father had tried to wire the money overseas that afternoon.
The police had moved early.
