SLOANE
He left on a Sunday.
August 30th. 7:14 a.m. I know the exact time because I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, pretending to read a chapter of *Beloved* for my summer reading list, while listening to every sound that traveled through the walls of this house like sonar.
The zip of a duffel bag.
The heavy thud of hockey equipment being dragged down the hallway.
Victoria’s voice—bright, teary, proud—floating up from the kitchen. “I packed the cooler with the turkey wraps you like. And there’s a bag of those gummy bears in the front pocket. The sour ones.”
“Thanks, Mom.” His voice. Low, casual, not a single crack in it. Like he wasn’t about to drive three hours north to Dalton University and leave me here in this house that still smelled like chlorine and s*x and the worst summer
