“Wanna tell me what this is about?” I wag the remote by my ear. “How come you threw the remote across the room?”

“She dropped it,” Baxter says, taking up for his big sister.

I ignore him. “Is this how you treat electronics in this house, like they’re disposable? Like they’re a worthless piece of trash? Are you really that much of a spoiled brat?”

Behind me, the television blares a commercial, an annoying jingle for some kind of sugary cereal. I punch the mute button with a thumb. “Beatrix, I asked you a question. I’m going to need an answer.”

Baxter looks at Beatrix.

Beatrix glares at me. “To which one? That was three questions.”

I almost laugh. Almost. This kid’s too smart for her own good, an added complication I need to figure out how to tame—and fast. Too much planning has gone into this day to let a sassy, spoiled kid ruin everything.

“Hey, mister?” Baxter says, but I don’t look over. I don’t acknowledge him at all. Let this be a lesson to him, too, to not interrupt when other people are talking.

“Do you know how much a remote like this one costs?” I say to Beatrix. “Hundreds and hundreds of dollars. And look here, you cracked the screen. These things don’t just grow on trees, you know.”

She looks away, bored. Bored.

I’d forgotten how impossible nine-year-olds can be. My fingers itch to spank her.

I settle the remote in the bowl on the coffee table and sink onto the edge. “Look, if you and I are going to get through this afternoon in one piece, you’re going to have to do better. To be better. You told me downstairs I could trust you. Now I need you to prove it. And just so we’re clear, throwing remotes around and letting your mama get all riled up isn’t the way to do it. Don’t you hear her over there?”

That breaks through the noise in Beatrix’s immature brain. She stops seething long enough to cock her head, to listen to her mother sobbing across the hall. I see the second she feels regret.

“You did that,” I say, pointing a long finger at her face. “You made your mama cry. That’s on you.”

Her angry scowl bleeds away.

Baxter wriggles in his chair. “Mister, I really gotta—”

“Zip it.” I hold up a hand in his direction. “This conversation is between me and your sister. You’re going to have to wait your turn.”

“But it’s important.”

A cramp. He’s cold. A dancing chipmunk on the windowsill. A cloud that looks like a question mark. Baxter believes that they’re all worth everyone’s attention.