She bends down to give me a patient look. Even though I know she doesn’t want this conversation to continue, she’s been trained over the years to be encouraging when it takes me a minute to find my words.

“Because Dad wants to move. And that’s something we should talk about. And we should also talk about all the things we never talk about. Like why he wants to move,” I say, my words slow but steady.

“Oh, Quinn,” Mom says. She looks away, moving to go check the oven even though I know there’s nothing in it.

“I’m serious, Mom.” This conversation is an uphill climb, but I’m finally finding my footing. I imagine myself scaling a mountain, pushing upward, bit by bit. I take a breath. “We should talk about it. We’ve never talked about how Dad had those guns. About—”

“Quinn!” Mom’s voice is sharp like broken glass. “Stop.”

I grip the kitchen island counter, curling my fingers underneath it. “Why? Why can’t we talk about it?”

Her bottom lip trembles. “You’re too young. It’s not something to—”

The guilt inside me isn’t sloshing anymore. It’s overflowing. I can’t hold it in any longer.

“I’m too young? I’m not too young to have people stare at me all day at school because of what Parker did.”

Mom’s face has hardened into a metallic-looking surprise. I never interrupt her. Never. Ever. I never interrupt anyone.

“Quinn. Don’t speak about your brother like—”

“Like what, Mom? Parker did it. He killed people. And we need to talk about it. We need to talk about why he did it. We need to talk about how it happened. We need to talk about Dad’s guns and how Parker changed and we need to—” My throat is filled with bile. I want to keep talking, but I’m forced to stop to swallow. It’s only when I taste the salt on my lips that I realize I’m crying.

I reach out and touch my cheeks. I haven’t cried in so long. I haven’t let myself.

“Oh, Quinn,” Mom says. Her face is steelier than steel. She keeps shaking her head. “Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. I can’t handle this right now.”

She takes her apron off in one swift movement. It drops to the floor as she rushes out of the room, her fuzzy pink socks slip-sliding across the floor. I hear the creak of the stairs and then the soft click of her bedroom door shutting.

I bury my face in my hands, but the tears find a way to swim through the cracks. The kitchen feels bigger and lonelier than ever. I open the utensil drawer and grab a fork. I pick the pie closest to me and stab at it, scooping up a big bite.

The blackberry filling tastes like ash in my mouth. I spit it out in the sink. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

Taking deep breaths, I steady myself against the kitchen island. I grab the teakettle off the stove and fill it up with water. I turn the knob that I’ve been told for years not to turn without a grown-up present. Click, click, click—a flame bursts to life underneath the burner.