“Nah, Vee. That house would never let you leave.”

She knows she’s being mean, but she’s so mad. She should feel afraid—she knows, distantly, that if she saw this man in any other context, she’d be terrified. But this is her house, where she never has to feel afraid of anything, and so instead she just feels angry. And the feeling isn’t fading like it usually does. It isn’t working its way into

before the thing that still has its fingers in her brain can make a decision—

And Brandon just proved her father right, didn’t he? She saw it mushing around behind his eyes when he said her name with so much hate, saw the way it made him kick out at her bike. He could have been kicking her just as easily. Maybe, she thinks with growing alarm, he’d meant to kick her. Maybe he just missed.

“My dad’s gone, and you really just—you wanted to help? Don’t ever help me again, Vera.”

He looks up at her, bewilderment naked on his face. Vera’s never seen him this moody, this raw, this volatile. Is this how her father could tell that Brandon was turning into a man? Is that what he meant?

“You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t know anything about. He didn’t leave us, he wouldn’t ever leave us. He’s not like your dad. Something must have happened to him.”

He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t tell us where he goes, you know?”

She doesn’t know how to sculpt her face to make it look like she’s surprised.