Page 47 of What Goes Around

“You can go to bed,” I said. “I’m home.”

She blinked.

A small, startled reaction, like she didn’t quite recognize the person standing in front of her.

“This conversation isn’t over,” she insisted.

“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

I turned and headed for the stairs without looking back.

Behind me, she tried to recover, to reclaim the authority she felt slipping.

“You can sleep for a few hours,” she called after me. “We’ll talk later. About your behavior. When I’m less upset.”

I didn’t answer.

A few hours later, after a shower and a brief attempt at sleep, I came downstairs.

Morning light softened the edges of the house, but it didn’t change anything underneath.

Dad sat at the kitchen table, reading the news on his tablet. On Saturdays he stayed home until around ten, then vanished onto the golf course like clockwork.

Mom hovered near the stove, already fully done up. Hair curled. Makeup perfect. Clothes carefully chosen, like she expected to be seen.

Apple sat at the counter, legs crossed, hair freshly washed, wrapped in one of those soft pastel sweaters that made people coo about how delicate she was.

She looked up the moment I walked in.

“Morning!” she chirped. “Are you okay? You disappeared last night. I was worried!”

Worried.

Sweet.

Perfect little sister.

The same girl who, in my past life, wore that same sweet smile while she drove a knife into my gut.

“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.

Mom didn’t look at me at all. She stirred something on the stove with unnecessary force.

“You scared me. I thought something happened,” Apple added.

She watched me too closely, waiting for a reaction.

Then she tilted her head. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“I was busy,” I said.

Her brows lifted, just a hint. “Doing what?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

Apple blinked, surprised by the boundary. She wasn’t used to me having any.

Dad glanced up from his tablet.