My parents are not like her father, but there are some parallels. It never mattered if I was the perfect daughter or not. Christian was the perfect son, and still they screamed and fought and waged an endless war. Still they ignored us, used us when convenient. We were never people, we were things—their things.

Their voices mix and clash and distract me from thinking about Jack and Elise, about the difference between killed and murdered. About what Elise said as Jack was dying.

Their voices crest and fall. I take a deep breath, stare at the ceiling. This I can do all day long.

This I can do—until I can’t.

Their voices crest again but don’t fall. Their rage and fury climb and climb, whipping into a hurricane. I tell myself that their anger is a strange comfort. But it doesn’t help this time. Instead it feels like I’m drowning, like the weight of their words is pulling me under.

I fold my pillow, cover my ears, but I can’t block them out.

I manage to fall asleep for a few hours, and thankfully, the house is quiet when I wake.

• • •

“Hey.” Christian knocks on my door around dinnertime, catching me by surprise. “Come on, you have to eat.”

I have no appetite but he insists, so I follow him downstairs, feeling dazed and confused about what he’s doing. Sitting at the kitchen table, I watch as he makes mac and cheese from a box.

“So,” he begins awkwardly, “are you—” okay? That’s what he was about to ask. Instead he says, “I’m sorry,” and I’m so shocked I just stare at him.

“Look, I know—” He breaks off again, seems to be struggling to find the right words. I feel wary, unsure what he’s trying to do. “I’m just sorry. About everything.”

He looks contrite but I don’t buy it. “Everything,” I repeat. Does he mean Jack’s death? Does he mean what happened with Elise? Or does he mean literally everything, going all the way back to our childhood?

“Everything,” he confirms without clarifying. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

“Did Mom put you up to this?” I ask, suspicious of this uncharacteristic concern from him. “Are you going to report back to her?”

“What? No,” he says, growing defensive.

“For the record, no, I’m not okay,” I tell him. It should be obvious. I don’t know how I look but it’s probably terrible. I feel even worse.

He pauses as the microwave beeps in the back. “I didn’t know Jack well, but he was a good guy from what I can tell.”

“Oh.” I keep forgetting that they were in the same grade before Jack had to take a year off.

“I’m sorry.” Christian leans against the kitchen counter and looks at me, really looks at me. This could be the first real interaction we’ve had since we were little. He takes the mac and cheese out and splits half into another bowl and puts it in front of me. “You have to eat.”