As my eyes continued to wander the room, I came to notice the painting residing above the fireplace. It was of Chauncey and his two brothers. They were standing in front of the brick house we presently sat in and were holding shovels like proud construction workers. I would have considered it a nice pig family portrait had it not been for the large rip marks I saw going across it—as if someone had torn the image apart and then put it back together in remorse.
Chauncey reappeared in the doorway holding a steaming cup of coffee. Immediately upon entering he glared at SJ, who was sitting in the third wooden chair, which apparently hadn’t been dusty like the others.
“You’re in my seat,” he said flatly.
SJ hastily got up and apologized. She came to join us on the couch. When she realized the
