Then his father.
At last, he pointed directly at Zane.
In a rough, unused voice I had not heard in eight years, my son said, “You knew why I stopped talking.”
No one moved.
The color vanished from Zane’s face.
I shoved my chair backward so quickly it nearly fell. “Jeremy?”
His breathing turned fast and shallow. Terror crossed his face, as though the words had escaped before he could stop them.
Then he pushed away from the table, ran upstairs, and slammed his bedroom door.
I moved to follow him, but Zane grabbed my wrist.
I looked down at his hand.
Then I studied his face.
For the first time in eight years, I saw fear there.
Not sorrow.
Fear.
I pulled free. “What did he mean, Zane?”
“Do not do that to me,” I said. “Not tonight.”
But that was exactly what he did.
He remained for another twenty minutes, barely spoke, and left before dessert as he always had.
Jeremy refused to open his door.
Around midnight, a folded sheet of paper slid beneath it into the hallway.
It read:
I heard Dad and Uncle Dean fighting before the lake.
My hands began trembling.
There was more.
Dad said, “If Nora goes to the board, we lose the house.”
Dean said, “Then keep her quiet until this is done.”
I read those lines twice.
Then once more.
Below them, in Jeremy’s tight handwriting, was one final sentence.
Janice heard it too.
I remained seated on the floor outside his room until morning.
