41
Addy and I sat at the dining table the next morning. We had just eaten breakfast, our earth-toned ceramic plates and coffee mugs still cluttering the table. Bananas and apples and oranges filled a large, matching bowl.
I knew they were real—I’d eaten an apple the night before—but the bright bag resting on the table somehow made the fruit look plastic.
“Where did you get it?” Addy asked, staring at the purse.
The color had drained from her face so quickly, Addy’s lips were indistinguishable from the cream cheese smeared in the corner of her mouth. I was afraid she’d vomit her bagel.
“Is it Carly’s?” I asked.
I almost protested when Addy reached for the bag, but couldn’t bring myself to make her put on gloves. Its evidentiary value was questionable already, and if it was her friend’
