“Is your pie too hot?”

Jeremy shot up so fast his chair legs screeched across the oak floorboards.

He raised his right hand and pointed his index finger straight at his father’s chest.

Zane stopped with his hand on the back of his dining chair.

“Go on upstairs and get washed up for bed, son.”

Jeremy didn’t lower his arm.

His fingers were rigid, his index finger aimed right at the middle of Zane’s dark blue shirt.

“Zane,” I said, keeping my voice even and calm even though my pulse was pounding in my throat.