"So . . ." mumbled Ken. He looked at Winston, who shrugged his shoulders. "Well, uh, like I was saying . . ."

  Jessica heaved a loud, irritated sigh. "I swear, everybody must think I'm an idiot or something! I know what you were talking about before I got here, guys, and I promise you, I don't need to be protected from the topic." She laughed harshly. "I mean, I know a lot more about it than anyone else does, after all. Go ahead, pump me for information!"

  Todd shifted in his chair. "We weren't talking about anything in particular, Jessica," he said, not meeting her eyes. "We weren't talking about . . . that."

  "You're a crummy liar, Todd," Jessica teased, giving his arm a playful squeeze. "So don't even try. What if you were talking about the trial? Why would I mind?"

  DeeDee rested her elbows on the table and fixed sympathetic brown eyes on Jessica. "We don't want to keep reminding you of something that we know must be very painful for you," she said gently.

  "Painful?" Jessica ripped the plastic wrap off of her egg-salad sandwich. "I hate to disappoint you, DeeDee, but the trial is not a painful subject for me." She lifted her shoulders. "Why on earth should I get upset at the idea of justice being served?"

  "Justice?" Bill blurted out. "That's not the point. Liz is—"

  "My sister," Jessica interrupted. "I know. Now there's a painful reminder."

  An awkward silence fell over the table. Jessica munched on her sandwich, ignoring her friends' discomfort and the tense, uncertain glances flying among them. After a moment, Winston cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I'll be on my way. I told Maria I'd meet her. . . ."

  "That's right—I have to catch up with Terri," said Ken, pushing back his chair.

  Jessica looked expectantly at Bill and DeeDee, her expression clearly saying, "What are your excuses?"

  "Umm . . ." DeeDee glanced at Bill. "Bill has to . . ."

  "Go get some stuff together for the drama club meeting this afternoon," Bill supplied. Quickly wrapping up the remains of their lunches, they both rose to their feet. "See ya, Jess. Later, Wilkins."

  Jessica watched the four hurry off. "Sorry I chased everybody off," she mumbled, suddenly feeling guilty, and anxious that Todd might desert her, too. "Well, aren't you going to follow their example?"

  Todd pulled a Ziploc bag of oatmeal-raisin cookies from his lunch sack. "Naw," he said with a casual shrug. "I'm still working on my lunch." Jessica turned forlorn eyes on him. "Uh, I meant . . . I'd rather hang out with you," he added quickly.

  Satisfied with this answer, she polished off her sandwich and started peeling an orange. "You know, the way everyone's acting," she remarked after a while, "you'd think they felt sorry for Elizabeth, like she didn't even do anything—like she's the victim instead of the criminal."

  "She's not a criminal," Todd snapped.

  Jessica stared at him. "You're not coming to her defense, are you?"

  Todd looked down at his right hand, which had tightened into a fist, crumbling the cookie he held. "I. . . no, I just—"

  "Because she wouldn't appreciate it, Todd—take my word for it." Jessica's voice grew cool. "And I don't appreciate it, either. It makes me feel like, like—" Suddenly her eyes brimmed with tears. "Like you don't care about what I'm going through." A sob caught in her throat and she ducked her chin, hiding behind a curtain of hair so the kids at nearby tables couldn't see her crying. "I thought—I thought you were on my side now."

  Todd put a hand on Jessica's arm. "Of course I'm on your side," he said quietly. "But that doesn't have to mean . . ."

  He didn't finish the sentence, but it was easy to guess what he'd been planning to say. "Yes, it does," Jessica said, her voice quavering with intensity. "You can't have it both ways, Todd. You can't be on her side and also on mine. You have to choose, and you did choose," she reminded him. She placed her hand on top of his and smiled up at him, her eyes still sparkling with tears. "Right?"

  Todd hesitated for a long moment. Then his lips curved in a crooked smile. "Right," he confirmed.

  Steven Wakefield surveyed the two-bedroom apartment with satisfaction. "We've really got this place looking great," he said to Billie Winkler, his new roommate. "We're ready for Home and Garden magazine," Billie agreed with a mischievous smile. "Their special feature on 'Coed Cohabitation off Campus; or, the Battle of the Sexes Comes to a Bathroom Near You.'"

  Steven laughed, his brown eyes crinkling. "I think we've handled the culture clash pretty well so far."

  Billie leaned her arms on the counter separating the little kitchen from the dining nook that was part of a larger living area. "It's starting to look like home, isn't it?"

  Steven nodded. After classes that afternoon, he and Billie had gone on a shopping spree. They'd come back with half a dozen potted plants, a couple of big squishy throw pillows for the living-room couch, and a Chinese cooking set complete with wok, cookbook, and utensils.

  Usually, Steven didn't have a lot of patience for shopping. He tended to view his sister Jessica and her friends as proof that mall cruising was a gender-linked skill. But with Billie, buying things for the apartment had actually been fun. Steven's former roommates' ideas of decorating were to throw a dozen pairs of sneakers in a closet and a frozen pizza in the oven. Billie's different, all right, Steven thought, laughing out loud.

  Billie, who'd started chopping vegetables on a wooden cutting board, looked up. "What?" she asked, preparing to smile at whatever joke he was about to share.

  "I was just thinking," Steven explained, "about the other day when I opened the door and set eyes on Billie Winkler for the very first time."

  She grinned. "I wasn't what you expected, huh?"

  Steven shook his head. "Hardly!" When Steven had made arrangements—all through a series of notes—with his prospective roommate, Billie, naturally he'd assumed "Billie" was a guy. "I can tell you now, I wasn't sure at first if it was going to work out."

  Billie smiled again. "But it is working out, isn't it?"

  "Yep. I couldn't have asked for a better roommate."

  He headed for the refrigerator to get out the chicken, smiling at her as he went. He didn't want to gush or anything, but Billie was a fantastic roommate. She was neat, she was considerate, and she was great company. In just a few days, they'd settled into a pleasant, comfortable domestic routine—he could hardly remember what it was like before she moved in.

  "No, really," Steven said. "You don't leave dirty dishes in the sink, or hog the bathroom and use up all the hot water. You have a great collection of CDs and videos, you're smart and funny . . ."

  And gorgeous . . .

  "Well, with all those stellar qualities I just might rent myself out as the perfect roommate!" Billie quipped. "OK," said Billie as she whisked some sauce ingredients together in a bowl. "Put the wok on the stove. We're ready to stir-fry!"

  Steven watched Billie as she talked, admiring her delicate profile and the way the curtain of silky chestnut hair swept her cheek. Not that it matters that she's gorgeous, he told himself quickly. She's my roomie, my buddy. We're living together—not "Living Together" living together, but living together.

  When the oil in the wok was smoking hot, Steven tossed in the vegetables and Billie quickly stirred them around with chopsticks, her eye on the clock.

  Just then, the phone rang. "I'll get it," Steven offered, reaching for the receiver. "Yo," he said cheerfully into the phone, smiling at Billie, who smiled back at him.

  "Steven, it's Dad," said the voice on the other end of the line.

  "Dad." The smile faded from Steven's face. For a while there, he'd almost forgotten what was going on with his family. The hour's drive that separated his life at college from the tragedy in Sweet Valley had, for a brief time, seemed like a thousand miles. Now, like a tidal wave, it all rushed back over him. "How are things going?" he asked his father.

  "Well, we're all a little tense about tomorrow," Mr. Wakefield admitted. "I was hoping you could spare me a few minutes—I'd like to run some things by you, get your advice."

  "Of course," said Steven, glad that his father felt he could turn to him even though he wasn't a real lawyer yet himself, just a prelaw undergrad. "Umm . . ." His gaze shifted to Billie, who was still busy at the wok. The vegetables sizzled and crackled as they cooked. "Hold on a sec, Dad."

  Untangling the phone cord, Steven carried the receiver out of the kitchen and into the hallway. When he was in his bedroom, he put the phone to his ear again. "I'm here, Dad," he said. "What's up?"

  Mr. Wakefield proceeded to talk for five minutes straight, using his son as a sounding board. Steven got the sense that his father just needed reassurance that he was on the right track with his strategy for Elizabeth's defense.

  "It sounds like you've thought of everything," Steven responded. "Your case is as solid as it could get. . . under the circumstances."

  Mr. Wakefield sighed heavily. "Under the circumstances," he agreed.

  "How's everyone holding up?" Steven asked.

  "About as you'd expect. Your mom is running around the house like June Cleaver, cooking and dusting and vacuuming, and basically pretending she's a fifties housewife so she won't have time to worry. Elizabeth went straight to her room after dinner, without touching her food. She and Jessica still aren't speaking."

  Steven twisted the phone cord tightly around his hand. "Gosh, I wish those two would get over this," he exclaimed. "I wish Jessica would say something to Liz—scream at her, anything rather than this punitive silent treatment."

  "I guess it's going to take a little more time."

  "Yeah, but there isn't more time," Steven pointed out. "The trial starts tomorrow. Liz needs her."

  "What about you?" Mr. Wakefield asked.

  "I'll be there," Steven asserted. "Of course I'll be there. You can count on me—you can both count on me."

  "Thanks, son. Thanks for listening."

  "Try to get some sleep, Dad. I'm coming home tonight, so I'll see you first thing in the morning."

  "OK, son," his father said, and the line went dead. Steven dropped the receiver on the bed and sat for a moment with his head in his hands. When the phone started beeping because it was off the hook, Steven rose and walked slowly back to the kitchen.

  Billie was still cooking. "It's almost ready," she told Steven. "I hope you're hungry!"

  He nodded. "Sure. What can I do to help?"

  "You could throw a couple of place mats and some chopsticks on the table," she suggested.

  A minute later, they sat down to dinner. "Yum," Billie said, tasting the stir-fried chicken and vegetables. "Pretty tasty, if I may say so myself."

  Steven poked at the food. He'd lost his appetite, and even though he knew it was rude after all the trouble Billie had gone to cook for him, he couldn't bring himself to eat. Finally, he just pushed his plate away.

  Concern shadowed Billie's eyes. "Sorry," Steven mumbled. "I've kind of ruined the mood here. It's just—"

  "Ssh." Billie touched her finger gently and briefly to his lips. "It's OK, Steven. We don't have to talk about it. I know what you're going through."

  Steven couldn't help laughing bitterly. "Thanks, Billie, but it's just not possible. You're a very empathic person, and I appreciate the way you've been such a good listener these last few days. But you just can't know what it feels like, having your kid sister on trial for manslaughter."

  Billie dropped her eyes. For a moment, she was at a loss for words, just as Steven thought she'd be.

  When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. "No, Steven, you're right," she said, weighing her words carefully. "I've never had a sister on trial for manslaughter. But my family has had their share of problems, as has every family, so don't make the mistake of thinking that you're alone and no one could possibly understand what you're going through."

  Steven stared at her, speechless. He was astonished by Billie's words and also, in a strange way, comforted. I'm not alone with this, he realized. Maybe she really does understand. I'm not alone.

  Wordlessly, Steven reached for Billie's hand. Billie leaned across the table, gently smoothing the hair back from his forehead and brushing the tear from his cheek.

  "You want to go where?" Todd asked in disbelief on Monday night.

  "The Beach Disco," Jessica repeated.

  "You want to go dancing, on a school night, the night before . . ."

  The words he didn't utter seemed to hang, visibly suspended, in the silence. The night before Elizabeth's trial. . . .

  Jessica folded her arms across her chest, her jaw set stubbornly. "Look, you're the one who called me," she reminded him. "Why did you bother if you didn't want to do something?"

  With a sigh, Todd started the BMW and pulled away from the curb in front of the Wakefields' house. Jessica had a point. Why did I call her, anyway? he asked himself as he drove toward the ocean. Before he realized what he was doing, he answered the question out loud. "I didn't want to be alone tonight."

  Jessica turned to him, her eyes hungry and eager. "Me, either," she murmured. "When the phone rang, I was just about to call you."

  She snuggled as close to him as she could, resting her head on his shoulder. Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Todd slipped an arm around her. This is OK, he told himself, fighting down the feelings of guilt. We just want to distract ourselves from our troubles—we're just keeping each other company. What's wrong with that?

  A short while later, as he and Jessica hit the open-air dance floor at the Beach Disco, a popular Sweet Valley teen hangout, Todd almost started to believe his own rationalizations. The music was lively and fun and Jessica was a great partner, setting a pace that kept him breathless. "This is a serious workout—better than basketball practice!" he joked.

  Jessica grabbed his hands and twirled him in a circle. "Isn't it great therapy?" she shouted over the music. "Doesn't it make you feel free?"

  One song pounded into the next with no intermission, and Todd and Jessica kept moving. It is great therapy, Todd decided. That's what it is—that's all it is. They weren't doing anything outrageous, being together like this. He'd fast-danced with Jessica a million times in the past; she was his girlfriend's sister, after all. Except she's not "my girlfriend's sister" anymore, because Liz isn't my girlfriend, Todd corrected himself. So that makes her. . .

  Abruptly, the song he and Jessica were dancing to faded into something new. The tempo downshifted; the beat became pulsing and slow. Jessica's eyes locked onto Todd's and she drew closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, her body swaying seductively.

  Any illusions Todd might have had about this being a harmless, platonic evening flew out the window. He was holding Jessica in his arms—the moment couldn't be more romantic. And the worst part was he was enjoying himself. This wasn't playtime; this wasn't "therapy."

  My God, how can we be doing this? he wondered as Jessica raised her face to his, her eyes glowing as soft and bright as the stars overhead. Tonight of all nights? Todd's feet faltered and even though Jessica's body was warm against his, he shuddered as if from a sudden chill. We might as well be dancing on Sam's grave, he realized. And Elizabeth . . .

  "Kiss me," Jessica whispered, her arms tightening around him.

  Obediently, Todd bent his head, pressing his lips lightly against hers. He intended the kiss to be brief, but somehow he found his mouth lingering on Jessica's. The slow passion of the music seemed to hold them together, melding their bodies into one. The kiss grew deeper, and longer. . . . Finally, Todd abandoned himself to it. The kiss was tangible and real, something they both could feel and understand—something to hold on to in all the heartbreaking confusion that swirled around them.

  Wrapped in her bathrobe, Elizabeth sat at her desk with pen in hand and her journal open before her. If I could just write, she thought, staring at the empty page, I know it would make me feel better. Put down a few words, she instructed herself. Say anything!

  But her hand remained frozen; the page remained blank. For almost as long as she could remember, this journal had been her constant, faithful companion, providing solace and relief in times of stress and heartache. But the trouble she was in now . . . even her love of writing seemed to wither and die in the face of it.

  Tossing the pen down, Elizabeth jumped to her feet. For a few minutes, she paced the bedroom, her body surging with pent-up nervous energy. She was tempted to throw on some sweats and go jogging, but it was dark and late—almost midnight. If only I had some one to talk to. . .

  She thought first of Todd, and then of Jessica. Shoving both images from her mind, Elizabeth stepped out into the hallway. Mom, she decided. I need my mother.

  She had a hunch her father at least would still be up, preparing for tomorrow's trial. Tiptoeing downstairs, Elizabeth spied him at the kitchen table, hunched over a law book.

  The sound of the TV drew Elizabeth to the den. A black-and-white movie flickered on the screen, but Mrs. Wakefield wasn't watching it. Instead, she stood by the bookshelves, taking volumes down one by one to dust them.

  As Elizabeth entered the room, Mrs. Wakefield glanced up in surprise. "Honey, what are you doing up so late?"

  "I'm . . . I'm . . ." Not able to find the words, Elizabeth waited for her mother to do something—to say something comforting, to walk over to her and fold her in a warm, maternal embrace. When Mrs. Wakefield didn't speak or move, tears sprang to Elizabeth's eyes. "Mom," she whispered. "I'm scared."

  Mrs. Wakefield gave the book a quick flick with the feather duster and returned it to the shelf. As she headed for the door to the hall, she patted Elizabeth's shoulder in passing. "You'll do fine," she said brightly, as if Elizabeth were just seeking a little encouragement before a big test. "Get a good night's sleep, and we'll have a big breakfast in the morning!"

  Her vision blurred by tears, Elizabeth stared after her mother's retreating figure. Don't go, she wanted to cry. I need you. Don't leave me alone.

  But she choked back the words. She was never really here, Elizabeth recognized. I was alone before she even left the room. The tears flowed faster, spilling down her cheeks in two hot streams. Alone . . .