Under His Roof

CHAPTER VI

"I genuinely don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice rising as frustration bubbled over. "If I remembered, do you think I'd be standing here asking you?"

Zeke stared down at me, his knuckles turning white as he snatched the photograph out of my hand. His eyes scanned the blue ink on the back before he flipped it face down against his palm.

"Forget you ever saw this," he said, his tone flat and cold.

"No," I said, stepping closer to him, refusing to back down. "You have hated me for eight years. You look at me like I'm something filthy on the bottom of your shoe, and now I find this. I deserve to know why."

"You don't deserve anything, Daphne," he snapped, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Least of all an explanation for something you were too self absorbed to notice in the first place."

"Zeke! That is enough."

Mrs. Bennett stepped forward from the counter, her face lined with deep disapproval. She pointed toward the hallway.

"Stop treating her like an enemy in this house. She is a guest, and whatever happened when you were eleven years old needs to stay in the past."

Zeke didn't argue with his mother. He held my gaze for one long, suffocating second, his gray eyes dark with an anger that felt far too heavy for a simple summer camp grudge.

But instead of tearing the photo up or shoving it into his pocket, he turned back to the cardboard box on the table.

He slid the print back into the middle of the stack, precise and careful, before turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen.

I watched him go, my skin prickling with suspicion.

If he hated the memory so much, why treat the photo like something fragile?

Dinner that night was eaten in near total silence.

Zeke barely touched his food, keeping his eyes glued to his plate until he excused himself to his room.

I sat in my small bed upstairs for hours, listening to the house settle, my mind spinning in endless circles.

You promised you wouldn't tell.

What did I say? Who did I tell?

I searched every corner of my mind, trying to pull up a single image, a voice, a conversation from that summer.

Nothing came.

It felt like trying to read a book with the pages torn out.

At two in the morning, thirst finally drove me out from under the heavy quilt.

I crept out of my room, keeping my bare feet silent against the wooden stairs.

As I reached the bottom step, a thin strip of yellow light spilled out across the linoleum from the kitchen doorway.

I paused, holding my breath.

Inside, Zeke was sitting at the wooden table under the dim glow of the overhead lamp.

He had the cardboard camp box open in front of him, surrounded by dozens of loose prints.

He wasn't moving, just staring down at a single picture resting in his palm.

The harsh blue light made him look older, his shoulders hunched as if carrying something heavy.

I stepped quietly into the threshold.

"What are you looking at?"

Zeke flinched slightly, his hands moving automatically to flip the photo face down on the table.

He pulled his posture straight, his face instantly locking back into that cold, unreadable mask.

"Nothing," he said flatly. "Go back to bed."

I stepped closer to the table, leaning against the back of a wooden chair.

"That's what you said about the picture earlier."

He didn't look up at me.

His fingers hovered near the edge of the overturned photo, resting there like he was holding it down so it couldn't escape.

"You really want to know what happened?" he asked quietly, his raspy voice cutting through the silent room.

"Yes," I said, leaning forward. "I do."

He finally raised his head, his dark eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

"You weren't the person you think you were back then, Daphne," he said softly.

I froze, staring at him as the air in the kitchen grew still and cold.

"What does that mean?"

Zeke looked away, turning his gaze toward the dark window facing the backyard.

"It means there's a reason you don't remember."