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he pulled the trigger, Clea. Right there in his workshop.”
    She says, “You want to know so badly? That’s what happened to him.” She says it’s the truth, and that as hard as it is, I need to believe her.
    Here’s the thing, though. She said the same thing to me two years ago, back when she told us Dad had left: “It’s the truth, girls. You need to believe me.” So either way, she’s a liar.
    This is my dad, and I will never know for sure what happened to him. I don’t know who to believe or who to trust and it kills me. It tears me up inside.
    Please, Dad. Please CALL ME. Please call me and tell me you didn’t mean to leave us. Please tell me you’re alive and that you love me and show Mom for the LIAR she is.
    Brenna slammed the diary shut.
    She looked up to find Mr. Friday Casual, watching her as though she was insane. Brenna tried a smile. “Lousy book,” she said.
    The waiting room door opened, and Trent returned to her side. “Dunzo.”
    “That was quick.”
    “I know, right? They just scraped my cheek and kicked my ass out of there. I don’t get to find out results for two freakin’ days.”
    Brenna stood up. “Well at least you have two days where you don’t have to think about it.”
    “Like that’s gonna happen.”
    “Try.”
    “Hey,” Trent said. “You okay?”
    Brenna looked at him.
    “You catch something while I was in there?”
    “Uh. No.”
    “Well what happened to you?” Trent said. “Seriously, you look like hell. You’d think it was you that was going to maybe be a father.”
    The word swirled in Brenna’s mind. Father .
    Your father took that gun, Clea, and he pressed it to his temple . . . “I’m fine,” she said. “Just a little tired.”
    “Me too,” Trent said.
    “Well in your case, that’s understandable.”
    “Yep. Hey . . . Bren?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
    “No, Trent.”
    “I mean, for getting myself into this situation.”
    “I know what you mean.”
    “Are you just saying that because you promised you wouldn’t judge?”
    Brenna sighed.
    “Don’t answer. That was an unfair question,” he said.
    “Trent,” said Brenna.
    “Yeah?”
    “You are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”
    Trent swallowed hard. “I’m . . . uh . . . I’m going to head home, I think. Maybe try and get a little rest. Is that okay with you?”
    She pushed open the door, and then they were back on the sidewalk, the weak sun shining down on them, the cold slapping the sides of their faces. Trent crossed his arms over his chest, Brenna’s gaze traveling to the lipstick print tattoo, just below his collarbone. God, she hated that tattoo. Smart people do make stupid choices. “It’s fine with me,” Brenna said.
    Trent pulled her into a hug. She hadn’t expected that, and for a second she was overwhelmed—not just by the sudden crush of waxed muscle and Axe spray and gelled hair spearing the side of her face, but by the very real emotion beneath.
    “Thanks,” Trent whispered.
    He pulled away and sprinted down the street without looking at her. He was at the end of the block and crossing against traffic before Brenna even found the words to answer him.
    “You’re welcome.”
    Brenna hurried back to her apartment. The cold was really getting to her now. She had a case she’d planned to work on—a three-years-missing real estate agent from Scarsdale named Debbie Minton. But right now, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed with a blank mind and an Ambien. Too much in one day , thought Brenna, as she neared her building. Too much emotion in one day.
    Too much revelation and danger.
    By the time Brenna reached her building, she couldn’t wait to sleep, to dream of something other than what her sister had written in her diary, what Brenna had seen in the police papers, her father with a gun at his temple and her mother at the kitchen stove, just hours after. Hours after she’d found him, and yet so calm, so in control