Xander could not figure Erin out. She kept stealing glances at him, as though there was something she wanted to say but chose to swallow instead. Her lips trembled slightly, and he noticed she bit them every time silence grew heavier between them. He decided not to press, focusing instead on the road, but every so often his eyes flicked to her reflection in the side mirror. She was delicate beside him, quiet but brimming with things unsaid.
Because of the large painting taking up most of the backseat, Erin had settled in the front, the canvas tilted in such a way that Xander could see its corner whenever he looked over his shoulder. That sight alone reminded him of Uncle Gilbert, and a knot tightened in his stomach.
How could Gilbert display his painting so carelessly? Did he not remembe
