I sat across from him on the sofa, my hands clasped between my knees, listening to pieces of conversation through the walls.
“I had authorization,” Dad said from the kitchen.
“Then show us the original documents,” Detective Haskins replied.
From the dining room, Mom sobbed loudly.
“My daughter has mental health issues,” she told Officer Reyes. “She manipulates people. She’s angry because we wouldn’t fund her graduate school.”
I almost laughed.
I had funded graduate school myself by working night shifts at a hotel reception desk in Boston.
Caleb stopped pacing and glared at me.
“You ruined everything,” he said.
“No. They did.”
“You don’t even care what happens to us.”
I studied my brother.
He had Mom’s eyes and Dad’s mouth, allowing him to look injured and superior at the same time.
“You knew they left Grandpa here alone, didn’t you?”
Caleb looked away.
“You knew before I landed.”
“They said you agreed.”
“I didn’t.”
He swallowed.
“You could have said no.”
I stared at him.
That sentence contained the entire Whitaker family rule: anything they did to me became my responsibility because I had failed to prevent it.
