"I know that."
"Your father will figure things out. He always does."
The words land, and we both hear what they carry. We both know what those ripples are. We both know what's in those envelopes in that desk drawer.
"Mom." I look at her. "I'm staying. I'm happy to stay. Can we drop it?"
She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she picks up her cloth and goes back to the counter and says nothing more, which is either acceptance or tactical retreat. With Grace Berwick, honestly, it can be hard to tell.
I finish putting away the groceries in comfortable quiet and for a few minutes my brain is entirely, mercifully mine.
Then someone knocks on the front door.
"Oh, for the love of orcs everywhere," Mom mutters, already moving for the hall. "If that's one of those door-to-door salesmen again, I'm going to give them a piece of my mind."
I start folding the empty grocery bags as she opens the door to answer whoever disturbed our peace. I hear her voice go from pointed to warm in the time it takes to snap the air out of our reusable bags.
Oh. Maybe it's the new neighbor down the street, paying her a visit.
As I'm about to place the reusable bags where they belong, I glance out the window above the kitchen sink.
I freeze at the car parked in our driveway. I blink a few times before deciding this is not a hallucination.
There is a Rolls-Royce parked in my parents' driveway next to my Toyota Corolla. I'm not a car person, but I know enough to understand that what I'm looking at is not a regular Rolls-Royce. Not that there's such a thing as a regular Rolls-Royce, anyway.
But this one? It's been modified within an inch of its life. It is matte black, wide as a tank, and it sits in the driveway like it descended from a different atmosphere entirely.
It takes me exactly one second to figure out who this obscene car belongs to. I know only one person who is rich enough to own a car like that.
And I also know exactly one person who is arrogant enough to park it in a quiet residential suburb like it's no big deal.
From the front hall, I hear a low, deep voice say something, and then Mom laughs, and my stomach does a stupid, involuntary thing that I am categorically refusing to acknowledge.
I walk to the door.
Mom is beaming up at Demetrius Thornwood like he's a Christmas present. He's in another tailored suit, charcoal this time. When he lifts his gaze to me his mouth twitches with theremnants of the smile he gave to Grace, which should be off-putting and very much is not.
My stomach does that stupid little flutter again and I hate everything about it.
"Maddie," Mom says, turning to me with the brightest smile I've seen on her for a long, long time. "Your old friend is here to see you."
The word friend lands with the delicacy of a sledgehammer. Demetrius Thornwood and me, we're a lot of things, but friends is not one of them. We're not even frenemies.
Demetrius looks at me and I look at him. As I stand there, the kitchen, the hallway, heck, my entire childhood home shrinks to the size of a dollhouse. That's how small everything feels compared to him.
"What a wonderful surprise," I say, with a warmth in my voice that I estimate is about ninety percent fake.
Something in his eyes catches it. The corner of his mouth ticks and his eyes tighten for just a second before his expression smooths over. Of course he wouldn't let such a small thing as one of my little sarcasms get to him.
"Well, I'll leave you two to catch up," Mom says, turning to Demetrius. "It was so nice to see you again, dear. Don't be a stranger now, you hear? Come visit whenever you're in town."
Mom puts her hand on my arm as she slips past me back toward the kitchen.
"Be nice," she murmurs in my ear in the loudest of all stage whispers.
I watch her go before I turn back to Demetrius.
"Outside," I tell him as I push right past him, forcing him to take a back step.
