That night, Mrs. Wilson went all out in the kitchen. She made roast beef that melted in your mouth, garlic mashed potatoes so creamy they could ruin you for life, roasted asparagus and broccoli, and not one but three different kinds of crème brûlée.
It was clear she was trying to impress Linda. She had never made a spread like that for me. I tried not to be petty about it, but the thought stuck in the back of my mind as I took my seat at the long dining table.
Calling it a dining room felt wrong. It was more like a banquet hall—massive, echoing, with a table long enough to host a small army. Eleven seats were filled that night: the four Lachlan brothers, Agnes, Debra and Maxwell, Linda, Kiara, and me.
Agnes smiled politely across the table. “Linda, how is field hockey?”
“We’re undefeat
