Chapter 4: The Walk-Up

Phoebe was waiting on the front stoop of our walk-up with a wooden spoon in her fist.

Two men with cameras stood at the bottom of the steps.

"Last time," my sister told them. "Back up or I start stirring."

"Is that her?" one of them called.

Mitchell stopped the truck at the curb and got out with a paper grocery bag in each arm.

He walked straight through the photographers, and nobody stopped him.

They aimed their cameras at him, saw a man in work boots with groceries, and lowered them.

I slid out behind him with my head down, and Phoebe hauled the front door open and pulled me through it.

Our apartment was three rooms over a laundromat.

It smelled like detergent and last night's garlic.

Phoebe shut the door, turned the lock, looked at my bandaged foot, and burst into tears.

"I watched it nine times," she said into my shoulder. "Nobody falls in that straight. She went in on purpose."

"I know."

"I'm going to key his mother's car."

"Please don't."

Mitchell set the grocery bags on our counter and began unpacking them.

Eggs, bread, coffee, a bag of oranges, two rotisserie chickens.

Phoebe wiped her face and stared at him.

"You're the brother," she said. "The one who lives in the boathouse and doesn't talk."

"I talk," Mitchell said.

"You've said seven words to my sister in a year."

"Fourteen." He put the chicken in the fridge. "Counting the casserole."

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