"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Better." She opens the fridge and pulls out a LaCroix. "I just needed to get out of there."
"Do you want to talk about what happened?"
"Not really." She cracks open the can and takes a long drink. "It was just overwhelming. I don't really know anyone at that school—I haven't been there long enough. First I was the new girl whose stepfather was one of the richest men in the world, so people were curious. Now I'm an orphan."
She pauses, staring at the can. "Girls have always had a problem with me, no matter what school I was at. I learned not to expect to fit in or whatever. Since the accident, I feel like everyone is staring at me and whispering. And today was a lot. Too many people. Too much noise."
"That makes sense. You've been through a lot."
She shrugs. "I'm fine now."
And she does seem fine. Not fragile or shaky or on the verge of tears. Just normal. Maybe even a little dismissive.
"I'm going to do homework in my room," she says.
"Okay. Let me know if you need anything."
"I won't."
There's a tone I don't like and a flash of smugness in her expression as she takes her drink and leaves. I sit and stare at my laptop screen, trying to shake the feeling that something about that whole interaction was off. But she's grieving. Teenagers are unpredictable. I'm probably reading too much into it.
On Wednesday, I'm at the shop again, this time helping Jamie restock the retail shelves. The school calls again. Devon needs to go home.
Jamie sees my face when I hang up. "Again?"
"Yeah."
"Is she okay?"
"They said she's having anxiety." I grab my keys from behind the counter. "I need to go get her."
I drive to the school. Sign her out. Same routine. When I ask if she's okay, she just nods. When I ask if something specific triggered it, she says she doesn't want to talk about it.
Fine. I can respect that.
We get home. She goes upstairs. I make myself another cup of tea and try to get some work done remotely. Thirty minutes later, she's back downstairs. Hair down now. Makeup touched up. Scrolling through her phone like nothing happened.
"Feeling better?" I ask.
"Yeah." She doesn't look up from her screen. "I'm going to make a snack. Did you pick up any of those protein bars I like?"
"Yep, they’re in the pantry."
She finds them. Takes one. Heads back upstairs without another word. I watch her go and feel that same nagging sensation. When it's just the two of us, she's fine. Not anxious. Not fragile. Just a normal teenager who barely acknowledges my existence.
But I push the thought away. She's grieving. She's allowed to have bad days. I need to be supportive, not suspicious.
Friday morning, I notice Devon's Mercedes is still in the garage when I leave for work. She didn't drive to school. Which means Asher took her.
I think about the first call. Monday. The Mercedes was in the garage that morning too. And the second call. Wednesday. Same thing. This is the third day this week she hasn’t driven to school. Both of the other times Devon didn't drive, the school called me. I wonder if they'll call again.
My phone buzzes two hours later. It's not the school. It’s Asher.
Leaving work early. Devon called. She's having a rough day. Going to pick her up from school.
She called him. Not me. Him. For a second, I let myself think it: Is she planning these? Then I immediately feel guilty for thinking it. She's seventeen. She just lost her mother and stepfather. She's grieving. She's not orchestrating panic attacks to manipulate her stepbrother. That's crazy.
