Chapter 3 — The Locked House

I drove over Sunday morning without calling first, which we had an agreement I wouldn’t do, and I broke the agreement without a second’s guilt.

The drive took twenty-five minutes and I remember almost none of it, the way you don’t remember a drive you take entirely inside your own head.

I kept rehearsing what I’d say — to Elena, if she answered; to Julian, if he did.

I kept telling myself the version where I was overreacting, where Maya would come to the door rolling her eyes at her ridiculous father who’d shown up unannounced over a few missed phone calls, where I’d feel foolish and relieved and we’d all laugh about it later.

I wanted that version so badly I could taste it.