“Because your mother wanted to check on Isla,” Dad clarified.
Mom gave Dad a look. “Subtle.”
“What? I was honest.” He shrugged.
From the living room, Isla shouted, “Grandma? Grandpa?”
The two of them walked in before I could stop them. Which was probably for the best because there was no non-suspicious way to block my parents from entering my condo while my daughter was calling for them. Dad stepped into the living room, saw Isla on the couch, then Taylor, then Catherine. His brows lifted.
“Well,” he said.
Mom’s eyes flicked from Catherine to me so fast I almost missed it. Dad didn’t miss it. Unfortunately, my father hadspent his whole life being painfully observant and morally inconvenient.
“Hi, Catherine,” Mom said, voice careful.
Catherine sat up straighter. “Hi, Mrs. Russell.”
“Hi, Mr. Russell,” Taylor added brightly.
Dad looked at Taylor, then at Catherine, then at me. I knew that look. That was the look he gave me when I was sixteen and came home with a dent in his truck and a story that involved black ice in July.
Mom set the bakery box on the coffee table. “We’ll just put these here.”
“Kitchen,” I said quickly.
Dad’s eyes narrowed. I took the box from her. “I’ll put them in the kitchen.” Mom followed me. Dad followed Mom. We were about to have a parental conference. Exactly what this nightmare needed.
The second we hit the kitchen; Dad crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I replied fast. I knew Mom, and when she got nervous, she started blabbering a mile a minute. Mom made a small choking sound.
Dad turned to her. “Sloane.”
“What?” she asked with her I’m-guilty high-pitched voice.
“You know something,” Dad said with his stern parental voice. I just wanted to run away.
“I know many things,” Mom said. Then she looked at me, then at him, then back at me. “This isn’t my story to tell.”
Dad’s head slowly turned toward me.
I set the cookie box on the counter. “Can we not do this right now?”
Dad lowered his voice. “You have two young women in your condo watching a movie with Isla.”
“One of them is Taylor. She lives down the hall,” I explained.
“And the other one is Catherine Celia Davis, as in Cole’s daughter. Your coach’s daughter,” Dad continued.
“Right.” I had nothing better to say.
Mom whispered, “Oli.”
“No.” Dad pointed at me. “Why is Catherine Davis here?”
“Isla invited her,” I explained.
Dad stared at me. I stared back.
