Mom stares at the guitar as she sips her wine. There’s maybe enough for one more glass in the bottle, even though she didn’t open it until after dinner. But she doesn’t seem drunk. She just seems … sad.

“He hadn’t played in several months.”

When he died.

We both know that’s what she means.

I pick up the box of army coins and run my fingers through them. There are at least a dozen, all of them big, heavy, and shiny.

“Penn will want one of these.”

Maybe he’ll want all of them.

If he gets into West Point, he’ll have one of his own soon. But Dad will never see it.

“I only have half as many.” Mom leans toward me to peek into the box. “But we both used to drink for free all the time with these.”

“How?”

“When you’re out with guys from your platoon, someone inevitably throws one onto the table. Everyone else has to follow suit, and anyone who’s forgotten theirs has to pay.”

Mom only served one six-year enlistment in the army. During that time, she did two deployments to the desert, married my father, finished college on the GI Bill, and had Penn. She was pregnant with me when she got out.

The pictures blow my mind. Sometimes I forget that I’m basically being raised by superwoman. Penn forgets that too, but my sister never has.

“Landry was upset tonight.” I set the box down and pick up a stack of letter-size envelopes wrapped in a big rubber band. It’s at least four inches thick.

“I know. But she wouldn’t talk about anything but algebra. She’s closing me out.”

“She’s trying to keep you from worrying. Before dinner, I caught her reading a list of my Twitter hate comments.”

My mother groans. “Great.”

“I told her you have it under control.” I snap the rubber band on the envelopes. “You do, don’t you?”

“Yes. I promise you, Beckett. I may be a shit mother, but I’m a good cop.”

For a second, I can only stare at her. “You’re not a shit mother.”

My response seems underwhelming, but I don’t know what else to say. I’m not prepared to rate my mother’s parenting skills while we’re surrounded by my dead father’s things.

She snorts. Then she takes a long drink from her glass and sets it on the windowsill. “I didn’t know Landry was on Twitter. I told her she was too young.”

“She doesn’t have an account. She was reading the replies to my account on a third-party app.”

“I didn’t know Penn was sleeping with Daniela, much less—” Her mouth snaps shut hard enough to clack her teeth together.

“Amira?”

She blinks at me. “You knew?”

“Not until tonight.” My laugh sounds harsh. “Turns out I’m not such a bad amateur sleuth after all.”