“Of course, no pay, you’re only thirteen, and what about Willard?” Her piano teacher.

“He’ll be away, too, remember? This is perfect, Mom. No school, no piano, no need for me to be at the cat café exactly next week. You cut back on bookings to spend time with me. Why don’t we spend it together with your family in Rhode Island?”

I pump hard at the soap dispenser. “I’ve explained to you why we don’t.”

“Conflicting loyalties, I know, you want to stay neutral. But how can we not do anything? He’s your father, and what if he does have a gun? I mean, Anne doesn’t see every little thing he does; she was out of the house just now, right? Besides, he could have bought one online and been home alone when it was delivered, so she wouldn’t know. Guns kill, Mom. He could kill himself or kill Anne or kill the housekeeper?”

I shoot her a punishing look. She’s almost as bad as Anne sometimes—imagining things like what if I locked him in and there was a fire in the house?

I work at a burnt-on piece of crust with the tough side of the sponge, needing suds but getting few. “Do you see how ineffective this dish detergent is?”

That quickly, Joy is the appeaser. “But we’re doing a good thing here, Mom. See how compact the bottle is, no wasted plastic—and not tested on animals? If everyone on the planet signed on, the world would be a better place.”

I send a dry thanks to the head of her school, who, since taking the job two years ago, had made The Environment as much a part of the curriculum as Singapore math and Robotics—and hey, I’m all for going green. I recycle. I refill my reusable water bottle. I pay bills online. There are times, though when being PC sucks.

“Right,” I say and drop the sponge. After refilling the pie plate with hot water, I wipe my hands on the linen towel. Not paper. Linen.

“What about Papa and his gun?” Joy asks, following me into the hall.

At our closet laundry room, I open the dryer. “We don’t know that he has one.” I begin sorting still-warm clothes into a double basket, Joy’s on the left, mine on the right.

“But what if he does? What if he takes it into town and starts shooting the place up? Or decides to kill your neighbor? What if he did kill Elizabeth—”

“He did not.” I may have issues with my father. I may question his compliance with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. But I refuse to believe he is capable of murder.

“But what if he has a gun now? What if he uses it?”

“Don’t ask that. Don’t even think it.”