“Yes. What should I bring? Other than fucking bells for the two of you to wear.”
“Your appetite. I’ll talk to you later.”
I follow Easton but he leads me up the side of the house—past the hydrangeas—where Gramma Sharon is walking toward her car. He sets the recycling bin down at the curb next to the trash cans. JT’s Jeep pulls up behind Gramma Sharon’s car and he rolls down the window.
“Sharon! My life for you!”
She glares at the car as Easton hugs her goodbye, then climbs into the Jeep. JT does a three-point turn—narrowly missing Gramma Sharon’s car—and speeds off.
Gramma Sharon turns to me. “I hope your friend is less obnoxious.”
I assure her that he is and kiss her on the cheek. She climbs into the car, telling me she’ll see me in the morning. I watch her pull into the driveway, then back out—much more gracefully than JT—and wave goodbye.
When I shut the front door behind me, the living room to my right is dark. I’m surprised. It’s still early, and usually Valencia and Marcus watch TV before going up to bed. I hear movement from the kitchen.
Marcus appears in the kitchen doorway as I lock the front door.
“Nate, can you come in here a second?”
Something about his tone unsettles me. And I don’t see or hear Valencia anywhere. My heart is pounding and I’m anxious as I walk across the center hall toward the kitchen. It sounds like I’m about to be scolded again. Maybe he went up to the third floor while I was out and noticed the weed was moved around. I thought I put the jar back the way I found it, but maybe not.
Marcus is sitting at the kitchen table when I enter. He motions to the chair across from him that’s already pulled out. “Sit down.”
My stomach twists. This is giving me flashbacks to my parents trying to send me away to camp.
I sit.
And Marcus pulls the gun from under the table.
Twenty-Eight
He places the gun on the table between us and doesn’t say a thing. My heart is racing, and I think,Thisis it. He knows I’m not Nate and he’s going to question me with a gun to my head. I’ll tell him everything because at least then I can confront him about the games he’s been playing.
But then I notice the trigger lock is still on.
I stare at the gun, then finally look into Marcus’s eyes.
“You went into our closet,” he says. Shit. How did he know? What did I miss when I put everything back? Marcus bends over and picks up the cardboard box the gun was stashed in from under the table.
Under the recessed lights of the kitchen, I can see the layer of dust on top of it. And the handprints on it. There’s more on the side where I pulled it down. He must have been in there changing and saw the handprints. Of course.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He stares at me, and the longer he stares, the more ashamed I feel.
“Your mom and I give you and Easton a lot of privacy. Werespectyour privacy and expect the same from you both.”
I nod. Somehow this scolding feels worse than anything my parents ever did. Usually with them it was only yelling. Marcus’s calmnessis what’s so unsettling. It’s kind of like Valencia last night. Heshouldbe yelling but he’s so damn composed it’s freaking me out. Especially because I’ve seen his short temper in action with the paint. And how pissed off he was about the gas being left on.
I don’t know what to say, and the silence between us is making me feel even more uncomfortable.
“It’s normal,” I finally land on. “Having trust issues after everything that happened. I mean, Dr. Z says it is.” Yes, falling back on my therapy is a great excuse. Use trauma as a shield and everyone will feel bad and shy away from scolding me for breaking rules and being an asshole. I wonder if that can work with admitting I’m not Nate.
“And that’s why we’re talking about this,” Marcus says. “We understand that, but we have rules in this house—and we’ve been following them on our end. Your mother didn’t know about your go bag until she saw you with it.”
So she did tell him.
“All we’re asking is that you respect our privacy on your end, too.”
