“Of course,” her mother replied tersely, retrieving a bowl of salad from the refrigerator.

“I thought so. You always wear your ugliest makeup for Revival.”

A familiar silence erupted. Their patience should be running out soon, Sol calculated, excited to have a follow-up to her goading. She had grown out of provocation for provocation’s sake. She was now a provocateur with a purpose.

Something was off, though. Her parents had always been masters of the staredown, visible rage administered with invisible techniques, spooky action at a distance. But they seemed oddly relaxed, their faces calm as if they knew something she didn’t.

Frustrated, Sol broke the silence. “I’m not selling my fucking house.”

“It’s not really up to you, dear,” her mother assured her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We have evidence that you have been violating your probation. Drugs, alcohol, assault, vandalism,” her father stated calmly, using his police officer voice, a throaty drone. Sol had always been annoyed by the fact that he adopted this straightforward tone when he was explaining something arcane. “We’ve had a PI tailing you for a few weeks,” he revealed, opening a drawer and removing a stuffed manila folder. A large photograph peeked out from between its edges. Most of the image was obscured, but Sol saw a cute dog she’d stopped to pet just a week ago. What the hell was happening here?

“What does that have to do with my house?”

He continued. “There’s about three thousand dollars’ worth of mortgage payments left on the house. You make about thirteen hundred dollars a month. If we give this evidence to your PO, you’ll be fined for each violation. This folder contains at least seventy citations. At seventy-five dollars a citation, that’s over five thousand dollars, so you’re immediately in the hole. If your PO gives this evidence to any of the investigating officers looking into the vandalism cases—which he will—you’ll be arrested, which will entail bail, court fees, and probably some fines. Now you’re at about seven thousand dollars, and likely some community service. Now, obviously, all of this is theoretically manageable because you don’t have to pay these fees upfront. You can pay them over time, but then there’s interest. And interest with Georgia, whoo! We have a saying at the precinct: ‘You don’t want Georgia interested in you.’” He stopped to laugh.

Her mother chimed in. “Long story short, sell us the house for four thousand, and we’ll finish off the mortgage and even give you a little windfall.”

“You do realize this is extortion, right?” Sol asked, her fists quivering.