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“You don’t take things,” I say. “You’ve never taken anything. You wouldn’t take a plane ticket.”

“I’m not taking anything.” Elena’s calm. She’s actually the only calm thing at the table, and it’s the type of calm that scares me, because it’s her working calm, the one she does audits in. “It’s not a gift, Lucas. It’s a contract. Services rendered for payment. I have no job, no apartment, a body in working order, and a standing offer of one million dollars from a woman with a documented history of honouring her financial commitments.” She nods at Catherine. “I’ve seen the Frederick paperwork. She pays on time.”

“That is not–” Preston starts.

“You’re not doing this,” I say. “Not for money. Not for us. No.”

“Okay,” Elena says.

“Okay?”

“Okay, you’re saying no.” She picks up her fork. She spears a tostón, unhurried, and looks at the two of us down the length of our new table with her eyes that suddenly have an uncanny resemblance to Mamás. “Think about it.”

“Elena, there’s nothing to think about!”

“Good, then it’ll be a short think.” She eats the tostón.

Mamá is still standing. She looks at Elena– excitement fading into pride – and then she sits back down and puts one more scoop of rice on Elena’s plate without a word.

Catherine picks her fork back up. “Well,” she says. “This evening has most certainly exceeded expectations.”

The dinner limps on. The conversation restarts, carefully, around the crater. Preston mops up the wine and holds my hand under the table, tight, the whole rest of the meal, and neither of us lets go.

The refusal stands. We said no. We meant it. We were, for once, in complete and immediate agreement, no negotiation required, unanimous before the wine finished rolling.

But later, after the dishes, after the goodbyes, after Duchess is extracted from the cushions and the house goes quiet around us, I lie awake in the new bedroom on the third floor, in the biggest bed we’ve ever owned, listening to nothing – no radiator, no traffic, just Preston breathing and the old bones of the house settling into its new family– and I can feel it in there with us anyway.

The idea.

We’ve barely even owned these walls for more than a few days. And ideas, in this family, are like cockroaches – impossible to kill once they’re in. This one got in them before we even finished unpacking.

Chapter 7

The Escape

PRESTON

The new admit on the psych ward has been here for eighteen hours and has said, according to the chart, approximately forty words, which is fewer words than I use to order coffee.

Her name is Rachel. She’s fifteen. She was admitted through the ED after her mother brought her in, and the reason for admission is written in the chart in the flat, careful language we use when the truth is heavy: refusing meals, declining to discuss. She has a roommate she hasn’t spoken to, a tray she hasn’t touched, and a paperback she’s been holding for six hours without turning a page. I know that last detail because the day nurse notices everything and writes it all down, and because holding a book you aren’t reading is a technique. You can’t be asked what you’re thinking if you’re visibly occupied.

I know the technique. I personally invented several variations of it.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed when I come in, and she looks at me the way you look at the eleventh person to enter your room in a day – which is to say, at a point slightly to the left of my head, with an expression of polished, bulletproof boredom.

“Let me guess,” she says. “You’re here to build rapport.”

“I’m here because it’s 14:00 and I’m scheduled to be here. The rapport is optional.”

“They sent the young one. That’s a strategy. The old one this morning had a beard and kept saying ‘safe space.’”

“Dr. Feldman. He does say that a lot.” I sit in the chair – not the edge-of-the-bed move, which is presumptuous, and not standing, which is looming. The chair, angled slightly away, like we’re two people waiting for the same train. “This room isn’t a safe space. It’s a hospital room. The lighting is terrible and someone will take your blood pressure at 06:00 whether you like it or not.”

That gets me a flicker. Not a smile. A recalibration.

“So you’re the one they warned me about,” she says. “The nurses like you. That’s suspicious.”

“Deeply suspicious,” I agree. “I’d keep an eye on me.”