Chapter 8: Spare Keys

"Put it down," I said.

Brent kept smiling, the box in his arms.

"Camille asked me to start. Your mother said Monday. It's Monday."

"That's my box."

"It's going to the curb with the rest."

Waylon came around the corner of the house and stopped at my shoulder.

He didn't say anything.

He just stood there, a head taller than Brent, with his work jacket open and his hands loose.

Brent looked up at him and the smile got smaller.

"Who's this?"

"The person who's going to carry that box to my car," I said. "Hand it over."

Brent handed it to Waylon.

I noticed that he did it fast.

Across the lawn the front door banged, and my sister came down the steps in a silk robe with her hair in a towel.

"Oh, for God's sake. Samantha, this isn't what it looks like."

"It looks like you put my life on the grass."

"You weren't answering anyone! Mom was worried sick. We were trying to make room."

"For Brent's cousin."

"For the wedding! We have thirty relatives arriving in six weeks, and you've been living in a free basement for three years."

"I paid nine hundred a month."

"In cash," Camille said, and her mouth went sour. "Which Mom never reported, so be careful what you say about money."

Two houses down, a curtain moved.

A man in a bathrobe stood on his porch holding a coffee mug and watching us openly.

My father came out of the garage.

He wore the plaid shirt from the weekend, wrinkled, and his glasses were pushed up on his forehead.

He did not look at Camille, or at me.

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