Delta moves around the kitchen side, pulling various things from the cabinets. “You arrived sooner than I expected. I wanted to put out snacks. I’m sure you’re starved after the long ceremony. What can I get you to drink?” she asks as if I’m whole before her and can stomach such things.

“Where’s Harbor?”

There’s no point in making small talk when we have the root of evil to contend with. Lies. Cover-ups. Omissions. They’re all the same. I brace myself for which angle is chosen, though I know I’ll never be prepared.

She pauses with a glass in her hand, the glass as visibly shaken as she is. “We should have tea. I think I have chamomile to help—”

“Do his dirty deed?”

She looks at me, her eyes a deeper blue. “Lark, I . . .” Delta sets the glass down and forgets about the snacks. Returning to the other side of the island, she says, “I don’t agree with the decisions he’s made.”

“But you’re going along with it, which is the same thing as supporting him.”

“I . . .” Her gaze drifts to the outside, where the sight of her family gives her comfort. Wonder what that’s like? Turning back to me, she says, “No, I’m not. I just thought you should be told in person.”

My mind riffles through the words she’s saying. I’m trying to make sense of them, but I can’t come to a solid conclusion. “You’re telling me what he didn’t want to.”

“Harbor’s gone,” she starts, looking down at her hands on the counter. She may be distracting herself from the pain by picking at a speck, but she’s stronger than she’s probably given credit for.

Me, on the other hand . . . Imagining the words playing in my head is not the same as hearing them come to life. He’s gone. I grip the counter with both my hands and focus on my breathing.

Rushing around the counter, she comes to me and rubs my back.

“Don’t touch me. You’re not my m—you’re not my Liz.”

Delta steps back, her hands raised as if she was burned. The comfort in her eyes is long gone and has been replaced with a myriad of emotions—hurt, fear, regret, empathy, tenderness—spinning in the centers like a merry-go-round. I have no idea where she’ll land, but I back away from her, not needing her comfort when her son destroyed me.

When her eyes meet mine, she holds our eye contact, and I see she’s settled on hurt. “Lark . . .” She starts strong, her tone much steadier than before. “I know you’re hurt. We are too. We’re also confused, but we’ve done what he asked us to. We’ll do whatever we can to support him.”

“Except believe him when he needed you most.”

“What do you mean?”

I should carry this secret to the grave, but with Harbor gone, I’m feeling a lot like I have nothing left to lose. “Lucas . . .” And then I stop myself. “What am I doing?” I cover my mouth, horrified at who I am right now.