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That’s it. It has to be. Somehow, Peyton must have gotten a picture of me in the girls’ locker room after gym without me even realizing it. And now all of Fairhope High has seen me naked.

I suck in a breath, my nails digging into my palms at the thought of that picture being on everyone’s phones, available for them to look at whenever they damn well please.

That’s okay. It’s okay, Max. Just own that shit. Rise above it and own it. Then tell Dad and go to Chief Eli to report the bitch.

Peyton thinks she’s so clever, but she’s wrong. I’m not dumb. I know my rights.

If that’s a naked picture of me, this isn’t just cyberbullying. She’s distributing an explicit image of a minor. That’s a crime. A serious one. I’ve watched enough episodes of Mariska Hargitay kicking ass as Detective Benson on SVU to know you don’t do shit like that to minors.

Peyton, in her desperation to ruin my reputation, just made her biggest mistake yet. She overplayed her hand. Whatever picture she got of me, it’ll be the last one she ever sends. She’ll learn really fucking quickly that you can’t do something like this and walk away unscathed.

Knowing I have weapons at my disposal to nip this bullying in the bud finally gets my head on straight. Too bad it took me most of the time I should’ve spent concentrating on my test to get there.

Shit! With only ten minutes left on the clock, I try to answer as many questions as I can. Thankfully, the test is multiple choice, so I can shade in the rest through pure luck. Not that luck has ever been a big presence in my life.

“Time, people!” Ms. Mallory calls just as the bell rings. Like everyone else, I place my pencil on my desk. “Bring your tests to the front and collect your phones,” she says, looking none too pleased with us. “I have to say, I’m more than a little disappointed in your behavior today. I hope you all get it out of your systems before tomorrow’s class because I will not suffer fools. Understood?”

No one says anything, either too stunned that our usually good-tempered teacher is playing hardball with us or in too much of a hurry to check their phones. I’m definitely in the latter category. I need to see for myself what Peyton sent out.

“Max,” Milo calls, but I’m already on my feet, rushing to hand in my half-completed test and grab my phone.

“Are you all right, Miss Morgan? If you need anything—” Ms. Mallory begins, but I don’t have time to chitchat.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, practically running out of the classroom with my phone in hand.

I head toward my locker and press the power button, growing more furious when the stupid thing takes longer than usual to turn on.

“Come on, you piece of crap. Turn on!” I curse at the black screen. “Yes.” I breathe when it finally springs to life.

It takes another minute for my notifications to load. When they do, I see another text message from an unknown number.

I take a breath, bracing myself for what I’m about to see. The snickers in the hallway and the whisper of my name echoing in the school corridors don’t help, but I refuse to let them get to me. I’ll own this shit, just like I’ve owned everything else in my life. A nude picture will not break me.

As the message opens, I’m taken aback by the sight before me. Dozens of photographs appear on screen, but none of them are of me. Not one.

They’re all of my mother. Every single one. And they aren’t ordinary pictures. They’re mug shots taken after each of her arrests.

My back hits the locker as my knees give out beneath me. Unable to stop myself, I slide to the floor, my phone still clutched in my hand.

The mug shots span years, each one showing another stage of my mother’s slow deterioration. How drugs stole the light from her eyes. How she became this skeletal shell that barely resembled the happy-go-lucky mom I grew up with.

Tears stream down my cheeks as each photograph punches another hole through my heart. At the very end of the photos is a screenshot of some sort of document with a link beneath it. I click on it, my hand flying to my mouth when I realize it leads to a collection of police reports from every time my mother was arrested for solicitation and prostitution. And on the very last page, in bold red letters, are the words—Like mother, like daughter.

I stand corrected. Peyton is an evil genius. She knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t just go for the jugular. She aimed straight for my heart.

As if needing to add insult to injury, Peyton and the rest of the Red Squad stroll right past me, no doubt wanting a front-row seat to the damage they’ve caused.

“If that were me, I’d never show my face in this town again,” Amber tuts with mock sympathy.

“If it had been my mom, I’d move away and never look back,” Jordan adds, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“And if it were me, I’d be too humiliated to talk to anyone. Especially someone whose family actually has a reputation worth protecting.” Peyton’s voice is loud enough for me to hear every word. “But I guess some people have no shame.”

“Oh, ladies, I don’t think you fully grasp the severity of the situation.” Sydney bats her long eyelashes at me. “If my mother was a dirty, fucked-up whore,” she tilts her head my way, “Well, there is only one thing left to do.”

“And what’s that? What could poor, insignificant little Max possibly do?” Delaney asks, not even pretending they aren’t talking about me anymore.

Sydney’s hazel eyes lock onto mine. “Simple.” A smile slowly spreads across her face. “I’d kill myself.”