As soon as we pull into the drive, I hop out, take the front porch steps two at a time to the front entrance. Pushing the screen door open, I’m greeted by Taco, our three-year-old Chihuahua. He’s barking up a storm. Something he doesn’t do unless he feels threatened on his own behalf or on behalf of one of us. Us being the big, disjointed family that lives in the old Underhill farmhouse.
The door opens and closes hard behind me.
Sam.
Running into the kitchen, I find Robyn pacing the floor. She’s smoking a cigarette. Her face is swelled, and her eyes are red from crying.
“Bec,” she says, “I left them alone for one minute while I took a shower.”
“A shower takes more than a minute, Robyn.” I don’t realize it, but I’m shouting. As much as I love my sister from another mother, Robyn is
