With typical decisiveness, North grabbed a tea towel from the oven, smothered the geyser with it, and upended the bottle over the sink.

Shaw could smell the pearl onions. He shifted, and his toe scraped broken glass.

“What happened?” Teddi shouted as he sprinted from the breakfast nook.

Shaw found a very interesting patch of tile and focused on it.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Regina shouted. “I’m supposed to wear this again tonight, but your stupid bitch ass just got me wet.”

Shaw opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. Virgin. And North was here, right here. Had North heard? Did he already know? And the last part, what Regina had said about Shaw waiting for North to notice him—

“What happened?” Teddi asked again.

Waiting for North to notice him. Regina knew. She had said it out loud, and North had probably heard. He had almost definitely heard. Shaw wanted to squeeze his eyes shut. This moment, all by itself, had probably just paid for his therapist to buy a yacht.

“Shaw was looking for tea,” North said as he wrung out the tea towel. “Regina, stop throwing a hissy fit. That look is good for you. Really shows off your breasts. If I were you, I’d think about staging a wet t-shirt contest.”

Regina huffed and put her hands on her hips—drawing the top even tighter, the wet fabric clinging to her chest. “Well . . . I suppose it isn’t awful.”

The worst of the moment had passed, and suddenly Shaw found his voice, and instead of saying something coherent and rational, the only thing that emerged was a strangled shout: “Licorice root tea.”

Everybody looked at him.

With a sigh, North tossed the towel in the sink.

Chapter 8

The Grand Caravan really did smell like dead dog. Today’s April day was hotter than usual; the windshield glowed with sunlight, and Shaw cranked the window down to get a lungful of exhaust as they followed Jefferson to Highway 40. The sky had hardened into an enameled blue-white. A robin darted from powerline to powerline, and then they reached the underpass, and the darkness was like a bandage to Shaw’s eyes.

“What did that old bitch do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“God, no. I’m a grown man.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I had an eye on her.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know. That’s not what I’m saying. But did she . . . did she hurt you?”

Shaw considered that as the Caravan chugged up the ramp and onto the freeway. Up here, the sun was even brighter. It turned the Caravan’s snub nose into a white blaze, and Shaw had to close his eyes.

“She just—you’re going to laugh.”

“Probably. Since when can’t we laugh at each other?”

Since right now, Shaw thought. Since that night on the roof of Sigma Sigma. Since forever, maybe. Since Carl got cut up in an alley and a lunatic almost chopped off my balls, Shaw thought. Since that moment, we can’t laugh at each other. Not about some things.