I nod. “Hey, Vicki.”

She looks good, almost exactly the same. Her laugh lines are a little more pronounced, but her shoulder-length hair is still jet black with a streak of bright blue, her nose is still pierced with a diamond stud, and she still has that sharp, no-bullshit-taking shine in her eyes. The last time I saw her she tried to kick me in the balls.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

I look her straight in the eyes. “I need your help.”

9

Ten minutes later, Vicki sets a coffee cup down in front of me at her kitchen table. She has a nice house—a family house—in a development with green lawns and brick-paved driveways and swimming pools in yards lined with arborvitaes to have some privacy from the neighbors. Her kitchen’s huge, with mauve-colored walls and cream cabinets. There are framed pictures all around—some of dark-haired little girls, some of Vicki and Brian Gunderson.

Brian was a student at Saint Arthur’s too. A tall, lanky kid who sagged his pants, listened to Snoop Dogg, and attended on scholarship. I remember seeing them together around campus—he was her date the night of the senior dance . . . and it looks like they’re married now.

In the den off the kitchen, there’s a cluster of book covers with shirtless men in various stages of embracing equally hot, half-naked women. And the author is V. Russo.

“You’re a writer?” I ask, sipping my coffee.

“Yeah. I write romance.”

I glance at the pictures again. “Brian’s a lucky guy.”

She chuckles. “Yes, he is.” Then her expression turns thoughtful. “A romantic hero with a prosthetic leg would make for an interesting story.”

“Well, if you need a technical advisor, give me a call.” Then I ask, “Do you still talk with Kennedy?”

She lifts one perfectly penciled brow. Then calls down the hallway, “Louise! Come here please.”

A tiny little thing, maybe about five years old, with long black messy hair walks into the kitchen and stands next to Vicki. “Yes, Momma?”

Vicki crouches down next to her. “Louise, this is an old classmate of Mommy’s—Mr. Mason. Can you say hello?”

The little girl smiles, not at all shyly. “Hello, Mr. Mason.”

“Hi, Louise.”

“Can you tell Mr. Mason your full name, honey?”

“Louise Kennedy Gunderson.”

I nod in understanding. “That’s a beautiful name.”

Vicki pats her daughter’s shoulder. “You can go back and play now, baby.”

As Louise leaves the room, Vicki raises her coffee cup to her lips. “Kennedy’s the godmother to all our girls. And she gets full custody if we kick the bucket, even though I have two married brothers and Brian has a sister.”

That’s going to make this conversation slightly more complicated, but it shouldn’t be a problem.

“I assume Kennedy’s told you about our court case?” I ask.

“The case where she’s wiping the floor with you? Yeah—heard all about it.” She smiles a little too broadly for my liking, but I let it go.

“She also told me about your chat last night. How you proclaimed your innocence.” There’s a bite to her words at the end.

“I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her at the dance.”

“You had everything to do with it. Your girlfriend and her friends made life hell for Kennedy because of you—and you did nothing.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“You knew enough.”

And I’ve got no comeback. Because she’s right. It’s easy to look back, with the knowledge and confidence of an adult, and see everything that we should have done differently.

My words are strong and demanding. “That’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me what else I don’t know.”

She tosses back, “Why?”

My hand runs through my hair. “Because I don’t think she will—not all of it. Because I want to make it up to her. Because, I feel like a black-out drunk who just sobered up, and I need to hear about the chunks of time I’m missing. Because . . . she was always the one.”

Vicki rolls her eyes. “The one? Seriously? I’m a romance writer and even I’m about to gag.”

I shake my head, trying to be clearer. “Didn’t you ever have someone that you compare every other person against? This one’s nice, but not as nice . . . that one’s smart, but not as smart . . .

“She’s always been in my thoughts, even when I didn’t realize it. The one every other woman has gotten compared to, and fallen short. And I . . . I’ve missed her, Vicki. I want to know her again.”

She stares me down, biting the inside of her cheek. And then she nods.

“Okay.”

• • •

For the next hour, Vicki Russo recounts two years of psychological and emotional torture. Some of it was schoolyard stuff—dirty looks and shoulder bumps. Some of it was more sinister—notes slipped under dorm doors telling her to kill herself, calling her ugly, freak show, worthless. It was calculated, organized, and relentless.

“Why the hell didn’t she complain? Report Cashmere to the headmaster?” I ask, frustration in every word.

Vicki shrugs. “Lots of reasons. Call it the Pretty in Pink Syndrome—Kennedy didn’t want Cashmere to think she’d won, that she’d broken her. Plus the bitch had her pack of mean girls behind her—if it came down to their word against mine and Kennedy’s, who do you think the headmaster would’ve believed? And if she had reported it and the school sided with Cashmere, it would’ve gotten so much worse. Things like that always do.”