Page 46 of What We Burn

Banana bread.

Milo stares at the table.

“Fuck. She was too fast. Guess we’re staying for lunch,” he says.

Knox is already pulling out a chair.

FOURTEEN

HOLDEN

Something is wrong with the dads.

I clock it the moment we sit down. The three men move like a team that’s been drilled to perform. Burger Dad—the stocky one from the entryway—handles the grill with his back to the table. He never turns around unless directly addressed. Coffee Table Dad—tall, thin, the furniture polisher—sets out condiments and nibbles like a man working for tips. Hawaiian Shirt arranges the corn and opens beers and smiles at all of us, but the smile seems stuck on. It never quite reaches his eyes.

I’ve interviewed hundreds of people. Witnesses, suspects, grieving spouses, caught-in-the-act liars. You learn to read their microexpressions—the twitch at the corner of the mouth, the too-fast blink, the way someone’s hands find each other when they’re trying to hold themselves together. After enough years, you don’t even think about it. It just happens. The room talks and you listen.

This room is screaming bloody fucking murder.

Milo’s mother—Gloria, she introduced herself with a handshake firm enough to rearrange knuckles—is seated at the head of the table like she’s the center of gravity. Every line of sight leads to her. The moment she took her seat, Coffee Table Dad rushed over and poured her a glass of white wine and kind of bowed when she thanked him. Now she’s sipping her wine and beaming at all of us with the radiant warmth of a woman who is genuinely, profoundly delighted to have company.

I’m officially creeped out.

“So,” she says, setting down her glass and folding her hands. “Which one of you is the cop?”

I almost choke on my lemonade.

“That would be me.” There’s no point denying it—she’s looking straight at me. I’m guessing she already knows.

“I knew it! The posture.” She points at me with her fork. “You sit like a man who likes to be in control. Who’s used to being the authority in a room.”

She’s right. Though I don’t feel particularly in control right now. That’s a problem.

“And you—” She turns to Knox, who is consuming his second plate of canapés. “You must be the security guard.”

Knox looks up. Chews. Swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Milo says you barely talk, but you’d die for her.” She nods at Sage, who’s turning a shade of pink I didn’t know was physiologically possible. “I respect that. His father Ray is the same way. Ray? Say something.”

Burger Dad, apparently Ray, turns from the grill. “The burgers are almost done.”

Gloria’s mouth flattens into a straight line as she glares at Ray.

For a split second, Ray gets a panicked look in his eyes. Then he twitches, like someone just pressed a live wire to his spine. The tongs clatter out of his hand and bounce off the grill lid, scattering ashy flecks onto the patio bricks. As soon as he recovers, he gives a goofy, apologetic smile.

“Sorry about that—just hot,” he says, and in one motion, scoops the tongs up from the ground, brushes them on his apron, and goes right back to flipping patties as though nothing happened. “Where were we, honey?”

Gloria doesn’t miss a beat. “I was telling the children how you’re the quiet strength of this family. That you don’t say much, but deep down you’d die for me. Isn’t that right, Ray?”

Ray looks over his shoulder. He’s sweating. “Oh, yes, absolutely.”

He turns back to the grill. Milo grins at Gloria, who returns it with a little wink, her whole face lit like a chandelier. The show of it is nearly enough to distract from the jumpy current of stress running under the table.

“Who’s the bartender?” Gloria asks, scanning the group.

Micah gives a little salute with his beer bottle. “That would be me.”

“Ah. The pretty one. I was wondering which of you would be trouble.”