That was the last time I ever would.

Chapter 4 — Scraps

Frances corralled the thirty-odd guests into a tight semicircle around the patio, her contoured face radiant with theatrical joy.

Quinn stood quietly at the edge, hands folded.

Presley planted herself dead center, snapping her gum, shifting from one designer sneaker to the other.

“Turning eighteen is a monumental milestone,” Frances announced, projecting so the neighbors three houses down could hear.