“Do I think what’s weird?”
“That I don’t have a mom.”
I drop into a crouch so we’re eye level.
“No,” I say. “I think it’s part of your story. And stories… they’re all different. Yours is beautiful.”
She swallows.
“But Eli said?—”
“Eli was wrong. And I’m going to make sure he knows that.”
She nods slowly, staring at her hands.
I smooth her hair back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“I’m right here. Always.”
Her fingers curl around mine, warm, small, trusting, before she lets go.
I shut her door gently and walk around to the driver’s side. The wind is cold against my face, or maybe that’s just my blood cooling.
As I start the engine, one thing circles in my skull, relentless: This is not over. Something is happening beneath the surface here with Carol, with Eli, with whatever message is being passed around this school, and I intend to find out what.
Even if I have to rip the whole damn problem up by the roots.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Delaney
There aresome days when the kitchen feels like the only place I still remember how to be a person.
Today is one of those.
Late afternoon wraps itself around the ranch house, soft and lazy. Sadie’s home from school, but everyone’s in that quiet lull before their stomachs remember dinner exists. The windows are cracked, letting in a breeze that smells of sun-warmed hay, pine, and dust.
The radio’s on low, some old country playlist Boone swears he “doesn’t really like” but never actually turns off.
My sleeves are rolled, hair twisted on top of my head, and held there with one of Sadie’s neon scrunchies that looks like it escaped a Lisa Frank notebook.
There’s a whole chicken roasted in the oven, the atmosphere overwhelmed with rosemary, lemon, garlic, and butter. Potatoes are parboiled and waiting to be smashed and crisped. A salad half assembled on the counter. A pan heating on the back burner until the oil shimmers just right.
And finally, my brain is quiet enough that I… sing.
It’s stupid. I don’t have a voice like Roman or half of Coyote Glen on open mic night, but the house feels safe and the radio’ssoft and my hands know what they’re doing. So I hum along, low and under my breath.
“...baby, you’re the only home I know…
I mouth more of the words than I actually sing, swaying as I drizzle more olive oil into the cast iron. The chorus lifts, and I lean into it, spinning once, spoon in hand, hips moving, pretending for one bright second that I’m not built from stress and fear and caffeine.
The spoon clatters against the counter when I misjudge my spin.
Oil burbles, pooling in a glossy wave across the pan.
My wrist clips the handle.
The pan jerks.
