CHASE
The dining room table felt like a f*****g courtroom.
Every night at seven we sat down. Me, Sloane, Richard, Mom. Four place settings. Four chairs. And an invisible, electric fence running right down the middle, separating my side from hers.
I couldn’t look at her.
Not directly. It was like trying to stare at the sun. The attempt alone sent a sharp, piercing pain through my skull. So I focused on the things around her: the way her fork scraped against the ceramic plate, the slight rhythmic bounce of her knee under the table when she thought no one was watching, the dark glossy fall of her hair as she bent her head over her food.
I memorized the periphery. Because the center was a f*****g minefield.
Last night had been lemon herb chicken. Tonight was spaghetti and meatballs. The
