“Did you know?” Mom asks him.

“Know what, Helena?” Dad says, palm pressed against his temple.

“Where your daughter was. What’s been going on with her. God, Stephen, how useless can you be?”

I am right here but I say nothing. Christian peeks over at me. If he’s concerned, he doesn’t say anything.

I think maybe I’m the one who died, maybe this is my own special version of hell, watching my parents snipe at each other on loop for all eternity. Maybe this is what I deserve.

A knock on the door finally interrupts them half an hour later and they pause when it grows louder. It’s the lawyer.

“I’m Vera Deshpande,” she says once she’s in the living room, eyes searching our tense expressions. “Tell me what happened.”

Everyone looks to me. When it becomes clear I am too wrecked to speak, my parents start up again all at once.

“Her boyfriend—”

“Her best friend—”

“He’s dead—”

“She shot him—”

“Not Remy. Remy didn’t shoot anyone—”

“That’s what I meant—”

“It was that girl, Elise—”

“It was all her—”

“I don’t even know where she got a gun—”

They’re talking over each other, and I would feel vaguely sorry for Vera if I could feel anything at all. Finally, they catch themselves and pause.

“Where did she get a gun?” Mom asks, and all eyes turn to me again. I study the floor, wish I were invisible, wish I were anywhere but here, anyone but me. “This is serious, Remy,” Mom continues. “You could go to prison. Do you understand?” Condescension coats her voice, but there’s an edge there too, sharpened by fear. “Someone’s dead.” They don’t say his name. They don’t care about him, and they don’t care about Elise either, even after everything.

And I can’t tell if they really even care about me and what happens to me or if what they really care about is how this will look for them, if their daughter goes to prison. How this will affect my mother’s nomination to the hospital’s board, the promotion my father’s gunning for at Coca-Cola. How it’ll ruin the perfect image they’ve worked so hard to craft. We never talk about it but this is why they’re still together, after all these battle-worn years. It’s not important that their marriage is a failure, what’s important is that no one knows they’ve failed, and so the charade continues no matter the cost.

“Remy, please,” Dad says, eyes pleading with me. “We’re trying to help you. We love you.”

Love, that old excuse. They love me the way they love the Mercedes in the garage, the way they love an expensive timepiece on their wrists. They love me only for what I could be to them. I am to be seen but not heard, to be had but not understood. Love is the weapon they wield when it suits them, the justification for everything they do.

“Remy,” Dad tries again.

“Don’t be stupid,” Mom says, cutting him off. “Tell us everything.”