My grandmother puts a hand over her heart. “What in the world … ? What is happening to you girls? Franny. Did you know about this?”
“It’s why I wanted to come home, Mom,” Aunt Franny admits. “I want to be with my daughter.”
“Well, bully for you.” Grandma looks around at all of us, stunned. “I can’t believe any of this. Everything was fine until we left.” She narrows her gaze at Mom. “Until you came back.”
Whoa. Hey now. Okay, wait. If anyone’s to blame here, it’s Adrian Summers. Did we not just explain? WHY DOES NO ONE UNDERSTAND THIS, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE?
Mom turns to me and a calmness sweeps over her features. “Shutterbug? I’m going to tape a piece of butcher paper over the door to cover up the poster. You go upstairs and pack. We need to find a motel before it gets too late.”
Everything inside my head empties at once.
Nothing but blank, empty space. Shiny and bright to match the empty cavern inside my chest. The only thing I feel is a strangebuzzing all through my body—one that’s so loud, it drowns out the sounds of the shouting in the shop. I half-hear what’s being said, but I don’t really feel it.
“You’re leaving?” Grandma shouts. “Like cowards? Is that what you’re doing? Tucking your tails and running, like you did before?”
“Run the shop tomorrow by yourself, Mother,” my mom says. “I’ll text you the new safe combination. Great seeing you again.”
My chest feels too hot. Is it warm in here? Why is there no air conditioning in this stupid store? I’m going to pass out. I thought Mom and I were finally on the same page. I did the right thing and admitted my guilt. I told the truth about the window. It’s all out in the open. No invisible walls.
But here we are.
I soldier past the rest of the Saint-Martins, Evie clinging to Aunt Franny, Grandma shouting at Mom, and I head outside the Nook. I walk around the building and head up the rickety staircase to the above-shop apartment, through the living room of our stuff mixed with Grandma’s things, and I enter my bedroom.
I can pack in ten minutes. I’ve done it before. In the middle of the night, even. Just like this. But I can’t seem to make my legs move. I can’t quite put my adrenaline to work. The panic is there, but it’s not fueling anything. My body is just spinning in place. Empty. Bright.
My gaze lights on the Nikon F3 sitting on my bookshelf.
Prized possession. Gift from my father.
What a goddamned joke.
I don’t think—I can’t. My head is empty. I just stride to the bookshelf, snatch up the camera, and smash it against the wall.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Until the metal and plastic and glass break and shatter.
Until shrapnel flies off and scatters around me.
Until footfalls pound the floorboards, and my mother pries what’s left of it from my shaking fingers.
“No, baby, no,” she says, pulling me into her arms as she drops the broken camera on the floor. “Why did you do that? I didn’t want you to do that. I don’t want you to hate him.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but there’s no stopping the deluge.
“These aren’t sad tears,” I tell her. “These are angry tears.”
“I know … I know.”
She holds me for a minute, until we both pull ourselves together. Then she clears her throat, looks around at the mess I’ve made, and says, “Okay. Look. Get your purse and leave the rest. We’ll figure this out later. Let’s just go find someplace to sleep tonight, okay?”
It takes me a second to realize what that means. And then I do.
Leave the rest.
