Chapter 8: Where the Rent Comes From

Freya's POV

Brittany's scream bounced off the garage walls.

"That is a fourteen-hundred-dollar phone!"

"Then put it on the account," I said.

I said it too fast. I saw Keir's head turn, and I shut my mouth.

Brittany didn't notice. She was fishing in the bucket with two fingers, gray water running up her sleeve.

"You're insane," she said. "You are actually insane. I already posted it. Four hundred people have seen it. Mom is going to kill you."

"Then she'd better hurry," Keir said, and took the tarp and my arm.

We left her standing there, dripping.

In the truck I watched Fairmont slide away in the side mirror.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I put them under my thighs.

"You shouldn't have done that," Keir said. He was smiling a little, though. "I'm very glad you did."

"I almost told her."

"You didn't."

"I almost did." I stared out the windshield. "Keir, I want to ask you something, and I want you to answer it plainly."

"Okay."

"You knew."

He didn't pretend to misunderstand.

"I knew something was wrong," he said. "I didn't know it was this much.

"I read about your father's settlement in the paper. Then I heard Stanton had married the daughter.

"I knew my stepmother, so I guessed."

"When was that?"

"Six years ago. I was in Alaska. I told myself it wasn't my business."

"And you did nothing."

"For four years, nothing. Then I stopped lying to myself and wrote."

The truck went quiet.

"Two letters," I said. "Six years of guessing, and two pieces of paper."

"Yes."

"I was washing her dishes."

"I know."

"You could have knocked on the door. You could have called Dot. You could have come to the clinic."