My daughter called me crying and asking for help. By sunset, nothing was the same.

“She’s fine.”

Then I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.

“She just needs rest.”

“You’re overreacting.”

Then I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.

My hand went to the back bedroom doorknob at the exact moment it turned from the other side.

“Mom?” Mary said softly from the dark room. “Is that really you?”

Across the hoodie, in thick dark marker, was one word.

She stepped into the hallway wearing an oversized hoodie, even though it was hot enough to make the windows sweat. One hand was pressed to the side of her head.

Then the hood slipped back.

A section of her hair near the front had been cut away.

And across the hoodie, in thick dark marker, was one word.

Then Brooke rushed forward and grabbed the fabric like she could hide it behind her.

LIAR.