Miles’ mom is a slim woman, almost frail. Beyond her dress, her veins stand out like raised lines on parchment. She wears thick glasses, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she was his grandmother. I know she didn’t have kids early. Her whole head’s a mop of gray, and she’s tall for a woman, but her shoulders slump slightly.
She peers over her glasses at me, takes me in completely, but her face stays blank.
“This must be Freya Zilinski,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you. We even met once, do you remember?”
We’re seated in the living room. Daddy Kreeve lounges on the sofa, tablet in one hand, a tobacco stick in the other. He’s doing his best to pretend we don’t exist. Meanwhile, his wife is trying to play the gracious host.
“Yeah,” I say calmly. Miles is sitting way too close
