Sunshine peeks through the thin fabric of the curtain, turning his hair golden brown. A hopeful mien replaces the pained expression of seconds before. So optimistic, so sure I’ll agree and understand. The words Yes, I know lodge in my throat, tucked away and frozen because I can’t say them out loud. Even if Jean-Luc has come to terms with his role, I know he’s wrong—I am to blame, indefinitely, without reprieve. He doesn’t know the whole truth. Not even Angela does, and yet she shunned me after their deaths anyway.

A rogue tear slips down my cheek as Jean-Luc wraps his hand around mine.

“You know, my sister was no picnic,” I begin.

Jean-Luc lifts his eyebrows. “Everyone here seems to think so.”

“Yeah, exactly. She was wonderful in so many ways. Kind, enthusiastic, supportive of others, and smart. But she had another side that only the family saw. Once, when our parents went to a conference in Orange County and didn’t tell us, she went home and found the house empty; she was furious. She broke a super-expensive designer doll that our mother specially commissioned for her when we were ten, that looked like us. Like our mom.”

Jean-Luc hesitates. “I . . . Ah, is that so bad for a kid?”

“We were sophomores in college, living in our own apartments. I was with her when she called them, demanded they tell her when they were leaving town next time; her anger was so intense, almost irrational. Like she didn’t trust them not to up and leave one of these days.” I pause as the irony hits me. “Which, in hindsight, was correct.”

“What did your parents do?”

“What they always did. They talked her down and reassured her they were coming home the next day. They promised they would tell her their travel plans in advance next time, and she calmed down. My mom was really hurt Angela broke the doll, but she never said anything, not wanting to upset Angela again.”

Jean-Luc gives a sympathetic nod. “Everyone’s got skeletons, Shayna. And a few loopy relations.”

“Sure.” I sigh, saying things I’ve only said to my therapist. “And that example might not seem all that shocking. But it was typical of the Angela we lived with—her ups and downs, a tendency to fly off the handle suddenly and unpredictably. There was one time when we were kids on the beach, when my parents had to separate us for a while because she tried to . . .” I trail off, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter. Here it seems she’d put those issues behind her. Like Paris, or getting space from me, from all of us, was what she needed.” The thought jabs me just below the ribs, a self-inflicted wound.

The waitress returns with our check, and Jean-Luc pays in cash.