She'd thought she could remain detached. She and Elizabeth were estranged from each other; the close bond that had connected them had snapped in two. But as her sister rose to her feet and walked forward, Jessica felt the muscles in her own legs tingle. As Elizabeth placed her hand on the Bible and took an oath to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Jessica's own palms grew damp. When Elizabeth licked her lips, preparing for the interrogation, Jessica discovered that her own mouth was dry. I should be up there, too, she recognized, tensing for the prosecutor's first question. I should be on trial right alongside Elizabeth. . . .

  "Now, Elizabeth," Mr. Dilworth began, his tone cold and snide, in Jessica's opinion. "We're going to go over this one more time, because I know that it's possible in cases of amnesia and blackout for some, if not all, of the lost memory to return at any time. I hope today you have something to share with us."

  For what Jessica knew had to be the thousandth time, he proceeded to grill Elizabeth mercilessly about her actions leading up to the crash. "You acknowledge, Elizabeth, that you were drunk at the time of the accident?"

  "Yes," said Elizabeth, her voice strained. "I admit I was drunk."

  "Let's put together the details, then. Where did you get the liquor? When did you start drinking, and how many alcoholic drinks did you consume?"

  "For the last time," said Elizabeth, looking and sounding desperate and weary, "I know it sounds crazy, but I don't know how I got the liquor. I know I was drunk because when the police got there, they told me I was—they gave me a breath test. But I—I—" Elizabeth choked on a sob. "I don't know how it happened, I swear. Someone must have spiked my drink or something. . . ."

  "Someone must have spiked my drink. . . ." Elizabeth's words acted like an electric prod. Her eyes wide with guilty terror, Jessica sprang to her feet, gripping the bench in front of her. No! she wanted to shout in self-defense. No! You can't prove it!

  "Jessica, sit down!" Alice Wakefield whispered, tugging at Jessica's skirt.

  "What?" Jessica asked, a bit too loudly.

  People were turning to stare at her. "Sit down," her mother hissed.

  Jessica allowed her mother to pull her back into her seat, but she continued to lean forward, her hands clasped tightly on her knees. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She simply didn't know if she could trust herself not to leap up again, not to shout out. What was the prosecutor going to say next? What was Elizabeth going to say next?

  What if all of a sudden she does remember? Jessica wondered, agonized. What if on some level, deep down inside, she knows it was me?

  But Elizabeth wasn't going to have to answer any more questions. "I have nothing further," Mr. Dilworth declared, turning away.

  "You may step down," the judge instructed Elizabeth.

  It's over, then, Jessica thought, slumping in her seat with relief. It's over.

  She looked at her father, expecting to see him slump, too, with despair and defeat. Instead, Ned Wakefield sprang energetically to his feet. "Judge Baird, as per the agreement made earlier this morning, defense would like to call a surprise witness," he announced, his voice booming throughout the courtroom.

  A surprise witness? All around her, voices began to buzz excitedly. Her eyes bright with hope, Alice Wakefield reached out to grab Jessica's hand. Jessica's own face drained of all color; the tension returned to her body.

  What's happening—what's going on? A surprise witness . . . ? Did someone see me spike Elizabeth's drink? Jessica wondered fearfully. Was her own father going to be the one to unveil her crime to the world?

  Leaving the witness stand to walk back to her seat, Elizabeth had nearly fainted. It's over, she'd thought, her heart dying inside her and her knees buckling. It's over.

  Now she stared with unbelieving eyes at her father. Mr. Wakefield glanced at her, and something encouraging in his gaze, something confident, stirred a tiny flame of hope in Elizabeth's heart. Who could it be? What would he or she have to say?

  "I'd like to call Gilbert Harding to the stand," Mr. Wakefield stated.

  Along with everyone else in the courtroom, Elizabeth twisted in her seat to get a look at the young man who was walking down the aisle. He looked like an ordinary guy, about Steven's age, with a chubby face and white-blond hair. Elizabeth was absolutely sure she'd never seen him before in her life. What could he know about any of this?

  Gilbert Harding took the oath and eased himself nervously into his seat on the stand.

  "Gilbert, tell the court your full name, age, address, and occupation, please," Mr. Wakefield requested.

  "My name is Gil—Gilbert Harding," he said, his voice shaking. "I'm twenty years of age and I live with my parents in Ramsbury, on Royal Palm Road. I'm a student at the community college."

  "OK, Gil. Thank you," Mr. Wakefield said. "Now will you tell us where you were and what you were doing at approximately ten-thirty on the night of. . ."

  The night of the prom! Elizabeth thought, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap.

  Gil took a deep breath. "That night," he began hoarsely, "that night, I drove over to Sweet Valley to visit a friend—a girl I'd been dating. We went out to dinner and got into an argument, a pretty bad one. Right then and there, she decided she wanted to break it off. She took a cab home and I—I got in my car."

  "What kind of car was it?" Mr. Wakefield asked.

  "A . . . a Buick," Gil replied, his voice faltering.

  "Go on," Mr. Wakefield prompted gently. "What happened next?"

  Gil ran a trembling hand over his face. "I headed home. I was driving pretty fast. I was pretty upset. And I'd had a few beers. I don't know exactly how it happened—I took my eyes off the road for a second, I guess. And when I looked up—" His voice cracked. "When I looked up, I was coming around a bend on the wrong side of the road, and there was a black Jeep heading straight at me."

  Elizabeth put a hand to her throat. She felt herself choke with fear as she must have that night. A car was coming right at her, but there wasn't time to get out of the way! She couldn't avoid it—they were going to crash!

  Gil pointed at Elizabeth, his eyes flooding with tears of remorse. "The whole thing was my fault—she was driving just fine," he confessed. "She swerved, and I swerved, but it was too late. Probably because I'd been drinking. I sideswiped the Jeep, and it went off the road, and I . . . and I . . ." He dropped his face in his hands. "I panicked and I just kept going. I'm so sorry, Miss Wakefield, Mr. Wakefield," he sobbed. "I'm sorry I didn't come forward sooner. I'm sorry for what I put you through. I'm guilty of a hit-and-run accident—I caused that boy's death. And I'm ready to take my punishment."

  "Thank you, Gilbert," Mr. Wakefield said somberly. "No further questions."

  An excited murmur raced around the courtroom, and Judge Baird rapped with her gavel to quiet the growing din. "The court will adjourn for fifteen minutes." Despite the judge's proclamation, Elizabeth sat frozen and pale as a statue, her face a mask of disbelief. Am I dreaming? she wondered. Can his story possibly be true—it wasn't my fault, I didn't kill Sam?

  She couldn't take it all in; she simply wasn't able to grasp the full significance of what they had all just heard. Could Gilbert Harding's testimony really mean she wasn't guilty after all? She was going to be allowed to walk out of the courtroom . . . free?

  "Because of the evidence just presented to the court," Judge Baird intoned as the court reconvened and the audience listened breathlessly, "I hereby find Elizabeth Wakefield not guilty of the charge of vehicular manslaughter. However," she added, "because she was driving while intoxicated, Elizabeth's driver's license will remain suspended for a period to be determined at a later date." With a smile for Elizabeth, the judge slammed down her gavel. "Case closed."

  The sudden, shocking turn of events had left Jessica stunned. Now she let out her breath in a long sigh, feeling light-headed. Elizabeth's off the hook, Jessica thought with a weird sense of elation. Elizabeth was off the hook . . . and therefore, so was she. Someone else had been guilty all along!

  The noise in the courtroom was deafening. Throughout the room, people were jumping to their feet, shouting and gesturing. Jessica watched as her father threw his arms around a limp, shell-shocked Elizabeth, hugging her as if he would never let go. Meanwhile, Mrs. Wakefield embraced Steven, tears of joy running down both their faces. Then the two of them rushed to Elizabeth's side as well.

  Jessica leaned forward to look at Todd, who was sitting closer to the aisle next to Enid. He, too, was focusing on Elizabeth, joy and longing written clearly on his face for all the world to see. Turning his back on Jessica, he started toward the aisle . . . toward Elizabeth.

  I might as well not even exist, Jessica thought, her elation fading and bitterness once again filling her heart.

  The doors to the hallway burst open and members of the press surged into the courtroom. As Elizabeth came up the aisle, flashbulbs started popping. Jessica watched her sister closely waiting to see what Elizabeth might say to Todd . . . or to her.

  But Elizabeth didn't even glance their way. She was laughing and crying at the same time, clinging to her mother with one arm and her father with the other, while Steven walked ahead to clear a path. The emotional roller coaster of the last week had left her dazed. She didn't seem to be aware of anything that was going on around her—clearly she was happy just to be with her family, to be going home.

  And I guess I'm not a part of the family anymore, Jessica thought, overcome by a sudden sense of almost unbearable loneliness and isolation.

  She looked at Todd. He was staring after Elizabeth, his expression guilty and pained. I have to make him see what I see, Jessica thought. The trial was over, but nothing had changed. Justice hadn't really been served. Who was going to make reparation to her and Todd for their suffering?

  Stepping up to Todd's side, Jessica grasped his arm. Slowly, Todd tore his gaze from Elizabeth's retreating figure and turned his head to meet Jessica's cold, hurt eyes.

  Jessica pressed close to his side, clinging possessively to his arm. "Let's get out of here, Todd," she commanded, holding his gaze, willing him to bend to her wishes, to abandon his misguided dream of a reconciliation with Elizabeth.

  Todd's shoulders drooped somewhat; the last faint glimmer of hope flickered out in his eyes. He nodded and, putting his hand over Jessica's, escorted her from the courtroom.

  Chapter 11

  Having returned to his apartment after the trial, Steven loosened his tie, then yanked it off and tossed it over the back of a chair. His blazer followed suit. Kicking off his good shoes, he padded over to the living room sofa in his socks.

  There was a stack of mail to go through, a couple of newspapers he hadn't had time to read, and more than a couple of textbooks he hadn't cracked in days. If he hurried and changed, he could probably catch the second half of the intramural soccer game.

  The trial is over—I can get back to my life now, Steven thought. But for some reason he didn't feel like playing sports or doing homework. He didn't feel like calling up any of the friends he hadn't seen in weeks. Because he couldn't just go back to his old routine. True, the trial was over and, miraculously, Elizabeth was free . . . but Billie was gone.

  Putting his feet on top of the cedar blanket chest he used as a coffee table, Steven looked around the apartment, noticing all the small changes Billie had made while she was there: the spice rack on the kitchen counter, a row of flowering plants on the windowsill, the big basket she'd bought for them to throw all their sports equipment into—so the apartment wouldn't be permanently cluttered by tennis rackets and basketballs and Frisbees and softball gloves.

  When she was here, this place was a real home. Steven smiled, remembering the morning he'd woken up to find Billie in the kitchen, flipping pancakes. And now . . .

  Now all the little feminine touches only made the apartment seem emptier, lonelier. All Steven could see was what wasn't there—who wasn't there. His heart was aching for Billie. He knew she would never walk through his door again.

  "I didn't even realize I was falling in love with her," Steven said aloud. "What a dork!" And probably the reason he didn't was that, first and foremost, he considered her such a good friend. . . .

  Steven winced, remembering their last conversation. Not that you could really call it a conversation—he'd done all the talking, or rather, shouting. What came over me? Steven wondered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Was it just the stress of the trial that caused him to fly off the handle, to be so unforgivably quick to accuse Billie of betraying him and his family? I was scared—I was totally off balance. And maybe I was feeling even more vulnerable because, on top of everything else, I was falling for her.

  There was no excuse, though, Steven knew. He couldn't believe he'd thought what he thought, and said what he said. Sure, Billie had had the power to hurt him . . . but she never would have, in a million years. All she'd done in the time they'd known each other was look for ways to cheer him up and make him feel better. How could he have been so cruel to her, when she'd been so sensitive and caring when he'd been hurting?

  All the time it was Jess who was talking about Mom. Steven shook his head with a sad, cynical smile. I guess I should have known.

  Just then, the phone rang. Steven leapt to his feet, a jolt of adrenaline causing his heart to pound like a drum solo. Maybe it's her! he thought, reaching the phone in two strides.

  "Hi—hello," he croaked into the receiver.

  "Steven, it's Eve," the voice on the other end announced brightly. "I just wanted to remind you that the prelaw study group is meeting at my place tomorrow night, and it's your turn to bring the snacks. Unless tonight would be better for you—we're flexible."

  All the hopeful energy drained from Steven's body. "No, I'm driving back down to Sweet Valley for dinner tonight. I'll be there tomorrow," he promised, without much enthusiasm. "See ya."

  "Bye."

  Steven hung up the phone. For a long moment, he stood leaning against the kitchen counter, thinking. He knew he was lucky to have buddies like Eve. They'd always be there for him, through good times and bad—he could count on it. But love . . . love was something else again. You had to grab love while you had the chance. Steven thought about what he'd said to Todd the day Todd came to his apartment for advice about Elizabeth. I really told him off, Steven recalled, smiling grimly. Boy, talk about the pot calling the kettle black! He'd accused Todd of failing to have faith in Elizabeth . . . then he'd gone and made the same mistake with Billie.

  And I probably totally discouraged Todd from trying to patch things up with Liz, Steven thought remorsefully. I sure hope he didn't listen to me!

  Because maybe if Todd tried to talk to Elizabeth, to explain things to her, and maybe if he tried to talk to Billie, to explain things to her . . .

  Yes, Steven decided, his spirits lifting. I owe it to her. . . and to myself.

  "Well, the trial's over," Lila said to Amy as she turned the car key in the ignition. "Case closed, finis. Into the history books it goes."

  She backed her lime-green Triumph out of the parking spot in front of the little restaurant where they'd grabbed a sandwich after leaving the courthouse. As they headed down Main Street, Amy rolled down her window, shaking her blond hair in the breeze. "Thank goodness," Amy remarked. "But do you think this'll ever really be over for the Wakefields? I mean, honestly—how can Liz just go back to normal life at school? And what about Jessica?"

  "Jessica's a basket case," Lila had to agree. "Why on earth is she chasing after Todd Wilkins? What's going through her mind?"

  "I have no idea," Amy admitted. "I have absolutely no idea."

  "Well, maybe some things'll get a little better, now that the trial's over," Lila said optimistically. "Maybe she'll start talking to us again."

  Amy sighed. "I hope so. Oh, hey, that reminds me," she added. "Speaking of talking, do you mind if we stop at Project Youth on the way home? I need to type up next month's Teen Hotline operator schedule. It'll only take a few minutes." Amy shot a glance at Lila. "I mean, you don't feel uncomfortable going in there, do you? Because you could just wait in the car. . . ."

  "Not at all," Lila declared. "I'm not seeing Nathan for counseling anymore, but we're on perfectly good terms—we got everything straightened out. In fact, I was thinking that maybe I should become a volunteer, too. I'd probably be pretty good at the hotline thing," Lila smiled at Amy. "I've sure had enough experience talking on the telephone!" She signaled for a right turn. "Let's go!"

  I really do feel OK about this place, Lila thought a few minutes later, as she and Amy strolled through the door of the Community Center into the offices where Project Youth was located. It's amazing what a person can work through.

  Amy elbowed Lila in the side, breaking into her thoughts. "Hey, Li—look who's here!" she whispered.

  Lila turned to see Pamela Robertson standing at the front desk, talking to the receptionist. Pamela glanced in their direction, but when she saw Lila and Amy staring at her, she looked away quickly, her cheeks flushing.

  "I wonder what she's doing here?" Amy murmured as they went into the room where the typewriter was.

  Through the open door, Lila watched as Pamela ducked into a room on the other side of the corridor, closing the door behind her. "I don't know. I hope she's not here for counseling. She looks like such a nice girl. I'd feel terrible if, after only a week at Sweet Valley High, she needed therapy!"

  "Tell me about it," said Amy, making a rueful face. "I feel like a total witch for blabbing about her reputation. Thanks to my big mouth, Bruce trashed their relationship." She shook her head. "And he was really crazy about her."

  "She really hasn't gotten a fair shot," Lila agreed. "You know, with this whole reputation thing . . ."

  Lila didn't have to think very hard to remember a time when her own reputation was on the line—when she was telling one story about what happened between her and John Pfeifer on their infamous date, and he was telling another.