Maggie and Charlie looked too taken aback to speak. But Alice wasn’t. She’d heard this rant, at least part of it, before. Had seen her stepfather’s face go all red and veiny, had seen his lips get all twisty and flecked with spit. “Me and Charlie don’t have the same last name as you, Richard,” she said calmly. “Who’s going to know we’re connected? Believe me, it’s not something I’m eager for people to find out. So if you’re worried about me telling, don’t be.”

“I’ll know we’re connected. And you’re living under my roof, which means you’re my responsibility. Besides, you’re a senior this year. What college is going to be interested in a student with a criminal record? No decent one.”

“You think any art school cares if I attend a political protest?”

Richard pulled his head back, as if recoiling in disgust. “Art school? You want to go to art school? Jesus.”

“You have a problem with art school? But you’re an architect.”

“So?”

“So that’s artistic.”

“No, it’s a trade. I went to school to learn it. Not to get a meaningless degree in arty-fartiness.”

“Okay,” Alice said, throwing up her hands. “Any kind of school then. I’m pretty sure most colleges look favorably on students with a proven sense of social justice.”

“You don’t know the meaning of the word justice.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you. In fact, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

He glared at her, those hard gray-blue eyes glaring away, but he didn’t say anything back.

“Look,” Alice said, speaking when it was clear he wasn’t going to, “I’m really sorry this isn’t working out for you.”

“What isn’t working out for me?”