Molly asked. I must have shaken my head.“Please, Abby.” She sniffed. Her voice sounded watery. “Abby, please.” Blankly, numbly, I stared past her and into my front yard. The leaves were starting to turn—yellows, oranges, and reds before a crystal blue backdrop. Malibu was exceptionally cheerful in the late fall, under any other circumstances. “I didn’t mean to do it. You know I didn’t.” She sounded a little hysterical for some reason. “But . . . but I knew Max was about to go majorly mental on you, so I tried. I was trying to help!” Puzzled, I moved my eyes back to her. Molly’s expression was frantic and broken. Had something happened? I didn’t know, because I couldn’t think, couldn’t remember. I didn’t let myself. “You know I would never do that to you. Ever. Except . . .” She lifted a hand, reaching out like she wanted to touch something on my cheek. That was when I remembered what had happened earlier that day. She was right. I’d totally lost it, came unhinged.
