The first crack comes on Sunday morning.
It's subtle. Small. Almost predictable.
I wake up to the smell of smoke.
Not fire—cigarette smoke.
I slip out of bed carefully so I don’t wake Marcus and follow the scent down the hall. It leads to the terrace.
Zara is standing by the railing, hoodie pulled tight around her, cigarette between her fingers.
She looks up when she sees me.
"I was going to put it out," she says immediately. "I know it's gross."
"It's not gross. It's unhealthy. And you're seventeen."
"I know." She takes a drag anyway.
I step outside, close the door behind me.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"About smoking? Or about the fact that I can't sleep in this huge fancy room because every time something feels safe it gets taken away?"
Okay. So we're here.
"That one,"
