“He didn’t do anything.”
“I know.”
The daughter whispered:
“He doesn’t even know she asked me for the money.”
That surprised him.
“He doesn’t?”
“No.”
“She told me it was a surprise.”
The father sat back.
Of course.
The sixteen-year-old boy had become the justification without even knowing.
Another person used.
The father stood.
“Pack.”
“Where are we going?”
“Your aunt’s.”
“My aunt?”
“Unless she kills me for arriving without warning.”
His daughter almost smiled.
Good.
He sent his sister one text.
Need a room for a few nights. Don’t ask by text.
Her reply came immediately.
Come.
Family could be useful when kept simple.
Downstairs, the stepmother sat on the sofa.
Her own sixteen-year-old son stood near the kitchen.
Tall.
Confused.
He looked at the luggage.
“What’s going on?”
His mother said:
“Nothing.”
The father stopped.
“No.”
Everyone looked at him.
He turned toward the boy.
“Something serious happened.”
The stepmother stood.
“Do not involve him.”
The father looked at her.
“He lives here.”
Then to the boy:
“I’m not going to give you adult details tonight.”
“But my daughter and I are staying elsewhere.”
The boy’s eyes moved toward his stepsister.
“Why?”
The girl looked away.
His mother snapped:
“They’re being dramatic.”
The father’s expression hardened.
“Stop.”
The boy looked between them.
Then noticed his stepsister’s cheek.
His face changed.
“Did Mom hit you?”
Silence.
The girl did not answer.
The boy looked at his mother.
“Mom?”
She began:
“She grabbed me—”
The boy stepped backward.
The father watched.
That reaction mattered.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
The father looked toward the boy.
“Has she hit you?”
His wife snapped:
“Absolutely not.”
The boy stared at the floor.
The father’s stomach tightened.
He changed his approach.
“You don’t have to answer me.”
The boy looked up.
“Why?”
“Because I’m angry right now and I’m not your parent.”
He swallowed.
“Your dad should know something serious happened here.”
His mother stiffened.