are you talking about?”
“Oh God.” Graham rubbed one hand over his face. “That’s what you thought?”
“Tell me what I’m supposed to think.”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“Not here.”
“You don’t get to say something like that in my house and then tell me not here.”
“I’m not talking about my relationship with Mari.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
Graham stood.
“Come with me.”
I didn’t move.
He pointed toward the kitchen.
“Please.”
“Why?”
“Because if I explain it here, you’re going to think I’m insane.”
“I passed that point about 30 seconds ago.”
He headed toward the back door.
I followed.
That night, she simply kept eating.
“That picture is evidence of a crime,” she said.
“You killed the fire,” Graham teased.
“It was raining.”
“You poured half a bottle of lighter fluid on wet wood.”
“Because you said it needed encouragement, Gray.”
“I said air.”
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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