An hour later, she returned to an empty house and dropped the cosmetic stick, mineral water, Cheetos, and change on the kitchen counter. Her chest felt as if someone had piled stones on top of it. She finished sweeping the dining room, put the chairs back in place, loaded up Nita’s car, and ripped the plastic off the doorways. There was no time like the present to put an end to something that should never have begun.

When she was done, she took one last look at the murals and saw them for what they were. Sentimental bullshit.

Chapter Twenty-two

Dean stood at the edge of the path. They were dancing. All three of them. Behind the cottage, under the stars, with music blaring from a boom box sitting on the back steps. As he watched his father, he saw the genetic source of his own athleticism. He’d seen Jack dance in videos as well as at a live concert he’d been forced to attend with his college teammates. But observing him like this was different. He remembered some lamebrained rock critic comparing Jack’s dancing with Mick Jagger’s, but Jack had none of that androgynous slink and strut. He was all power.

Riley, who should have been in bed, circled Jack, her movements clumsy, but filled with a puppy dog energy that would have made Dean smile if he hadn’t been so unhappy.

April danced barefoot. A long, gauzy skirt twisted around her hips. She arched her spine and lifted her hair. As her lips formed a sensuous pout, he saw the reckless, self-destructive mother of his childhood, enslaved by the gods of rock and roll.

Riley ran out of breath and collapsed in the grass next to the dog. Jack and April locked eyes. He answered her shimmy with some industrial grind. The porch light bounced off her bangles. They kicked it up, moving as if they’d been dancing together for years. April strutted, her lips forming small, moist pillows. Jack gave her a rocker’s sneer.