“You would.” Xavier leaned back. “But some of us prefer the older forensics—blood and sinew, spread across a granite slab. I’m sure young Thomas here does. You run hot, don’t you?”
“He does not,” I said, though Xavier was right—he was the perfect candidate for a Hefnd. What I meant wasYou can’t have him. “Thomas adores accounting.”
Tom paused, not wanting to contradict his elder.
“Math is universal,” he said at last, delivering a you-owe-me glance.
Xavier smiled. “We’re looking forward to having another Morton join us.”
“At Helshire,” I finished for him, though I knew what he really meant.
“Yes, Aunt Jessica.” Xavier reached for an apple. “At Helshire.”
How did he know I was an aunt?
That’s right—by now, Bianca had told her family I’d killed Peter.
And what I’d done in New York was all over the fucking news.
44
The day I left the hospital, there wasn’t much to pack.
Pajamas, dressing gown, toothbrush. My knitting gear and a half-finished scarf, the best my hands could manage. My Econometrics textbook (the crash had erased instrumental variables from my brain) and a bottle of anti-seizure pills.
I was ready to go, but my ride was late.
From the window at the end of the hall, I couldn’t see any of the family cars in the parking lot. In this rain, Orrin would deploy something sturdy, a Volvo or a Saab. The Cadillac had been formidable but, like most vintage cars, not terribly safe.
I wondered how the oak tree was doing.
“Someone said you’re leaving,” came an accusation from the doorway.
It was Bellamy. Her metal walking frame shone in the gray light from the window. She looked paler today, thinner, her arms shivering as they held her up.
“I’m fixed.”
“Not fair,” she said. “You’ve only been here a week.”
“Car wrecks and cancer are different things.”
“Wish I’d been in a car wreck.”
“That wouldn’t cure your cancer.”
“I meantinstead, duh.” Bellamy narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure your brain’s all better?”
I shrugged. My family still looked strange to me, and the naggingsense of incompleteness remained. Either I was missing something, or the world itself had dropped a stitch.
“You aren’t sure,” she said.
“Maybe not. But home is the best place to heal.”
“Home.” She said the word sadly. “I miss my house, even the slongers. Give me a hug.”
When I hesitated, Bellamy pulled herself into motion, covering the floor between us with a few heaves of the walker.
She fell into my arms.
