shit when it's not mixed with something. I will die on that hill. But I do relish in the burn as it slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, fire blooming and warming me from the inside out. I scoot the shot glass back to her, signaling another. Daya glances at me, and what looks like shame is clouded in her sage eyes. "What?" I ask flatly. She points towards my refilled shot glass before shooting hers back. I follow suit. This time it feels like this shot is to gain courage. For what, apparently only Daya knows. "So, I uh, Frank’s note wasn’t the only one I sent in," Daya starts, hesitation prominent in her expression. Her hand lifts to fiddle with her nose ring, but she catches herself and twists her fingers together instead. "Okay," I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. She's being weird. And not the kind of weird that involves us taking our pants off and dancing to I'm a Barbie Girl at three o'clock in the morning while drinking boxed wine. That’s only happened once, but we both woke up the next morning with regrets. She sucks in a deep breath, and I'm tempted to tell her that we're sharing the same oxygen—she's not going to find any particles in there that will give her superpowers and make her brave. I'd know, because I want to run and hide from whatever she's about to say. She picks up the manilla envelope and slides out two more pieces of paper. Shooting one last glance my way, she sets down the documents and we both read them over. One says it’s a match, and another says no match. “What am I looking at?” “The handwriting in the confession note matches your Nana's handwriting," she rushes out so quickly, it takes several beats before I comprehend what she said. "What?" That's all I'm capable of uttering. She groans and pours another shot. “This is for the confession note and a sample of your Nana’s and John’s handwriting.” “Okay, wait," I say, splaying my hands out. "You had suspicions about my Nana being the one to cover up the murder?” Her lips tighten into a hard line. "Yes." I shake my head, at a loss for words. “Why?” She throws her hands up. "Because it would've had to be someone that lived in this house, Addie. It was either John or your Nana. And your grandmother was attached to the attic, was she not?"