Pierce told them after dinner.
That was the mistake, he realized later. When the plates were cleared, when the table was wiped clean, when they thought the night was already decided. His father sat with his hands folded, his mother rinsed the same mug twice at the sink. Normal. Controlled. Safe.
Pierce stood near the doorway, breath uneven in his still-healing chest.
“I remember,” he said. Both of them turned at once. “The night of the shooting,” he went on. His voice surprised him by how steady it sounded. “I didn’t forget it. I didn’t repress it. I remember everything.”
His mother’s hand tightened around the mug.
“You were confused,” Mary said gently, already correcting him. “You were traumatized.”
“No,” Pierce said. “I wasn’t.” Silence pressed in. He swallowed. Forced himself to k
