Dad sets down his fork. He pulls at his tie, loosening it a little. “Come on, Clarissa. Turner’s Point isn’t that far from us. And it’s definitely not that far from my office. My commute would be about the same.”

Mom’s face goes stony. “Daniel, let’s not talk about this. Especially not in front of Quinn.” She gives me the world’s sourest smile—it’s all lemons.

It’s Dad’s turn for a loud swallow. I want to crawl under the table. I glance around for Cupcake, but she’s nowhere to be found. She’s probably hiding upstairs. Smart cat.

“Well”—Dad’s eyes shift to me—“I was thinking I’d like to get Quinn’s take on this.”

I know from those late-night conversations that I’m not supposed to hear that Dad has been wanting to move for a long time. He says that we all need a fresh start. He also wants to buy a less expensive house because apparently money things aren’t great between Mom leaving her job and the legal fees surrounding what happened with Parker.

Mom doesn’t give me the chance to answer. She sets her water glass down with a bang. “We aren’t moving. Chestnut is our home.”

“Q, honey,” Dad says. “Are things . . .” He stops talking. He looks off in the distance. When Dad was younger, his brain also used to Freeze Up. Maybe that’s what’s happening right now.

He shakes his head a little and starts again. “Are things hard for you? Would you like a fresh start? A chance to make new friends?”

At this, Mom stands up. She snatches the serving plate of pasta and walks over to the sink. She dumps it all into the trash, which is a real bummer because I was hoping to eat more later when the fighting stopped and I could stomach it.

“Uh,” I say. There are so many things I want to say, but so many things I know that I can’t.

“You can be honest with us, Q,” Dad says. He tilts forward in his chair, and I push back in mine.

“How dare you, Daniel!” Mom’s voice is high and strained. My shoulders lurch toward my ears as I sink down in my seat. “You can’t ask her questions like that. We’re raising her to be strong and resilient. Not to run away from her problems.”

“Resilient,” Dad says. “Right. That’s another one of your parenting buzzwords. Look how well that worked out with—”

Mom spins around. She wags a finger at him, and I see her short and ragged her fingernail is. It’s clear she’s been biting them. “They were yours. Remember that. They were yours.”

They were yours. My heart experiences a tiny earthquake, a shake and shudder. She’s talking about the guns. Dad’s guns. The guns that Parker used.

Dad shakes his head again. More firmly this time. He stands up and shoves his chair back into the table, its legs screeching against the floor. “How many times are we going to have this fight, Clarissa? I was responsible. They were legally purchased. And . . .” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What does it matter? They’re gone now.”