Page 69 of Wicked Brutal

Only then does his hand leave my back.

Dad shakes his hand, notices the bottle, and smiles. “You remembered.”

“I remember the important things,” Victor says, handing it over. Dad examines the label with the kind of appreciation he rarely gives anything that doesn’t cost an offensive amount of money.

Mom appears from the dining room a second later, and Victor changes when he sees her. Not enough that anyone who doesn’t know him would notice. His shoulders relax. His smile becomes softer. Polished. Respectable. The version of Victor Tremblay people are supposed to see.

“Jane.” He holds out the flowers.

Mom wipes her hands against her dress before accepting them. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Her eyes flick toward me. Just once. They drop to my dress.

Dad told me to wear this one tonight. Black, high neckline, long sleeves, hem below my knees. Appropriate, according to him. Mom was standing in the kitchen when he told me.

“The blue one was pretty too,” she says quietly.

Dad looks at her. “What?”

Mom’s fingers tighten around the stems. “Nothing. I was thinking about the blue dress Ally wore at Christmas.”

Victor looks me over again. “I prefer this one.”

Mom lowers her eyes to the flowers. “So does Roman.” Barely a comment. She says it softly enough that Dad doesn’t react. But I do — because she knows I didn’t choose it.

“Dinner’s ready,” she says.

Dad gestures Victor toward the dining room, already asking him something about traffic coming in from Boston, and Mom follows them. As she passes me, her fingers brush the back of my arm. They stay there for half a second. Then they’re gone.

Tobias is already at the table when we walk in, staring suspiciously at the vegetables on his plate. I sit beside him. “What?”

He points with his fork. “Why are these wet?”

“They’re green beans.”

“I know what they are.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I asked why they’re wet.”

I look at his plate. “They were cooked?”

“That doesn’t explain it.”

“It kind of does.”

He pokes one like it might move. “I don’t trust them.”

“Eat three.”

“One.”

“Three.”

“Two.”