Chapter 4: Sunday Brunch

Jerome's father opened the front door himself.

He was a big man gone thin, in a cardigan that hung off his shoulders.

His lips were the same gray I had seen on Thursday.

"You're late," he told Jerome, and then he looked at me. "And you're the girl who walked out of my wife's party. Good. Come in."

Behind him the house smelled of coffee and cinnamon and the lilies Margaret ordered every Sunday.

The dining room table was set for twelve.

Margaret sat at one end with an aunt and two cousins on either side of her.

Dirk sat halfway down with a hand over his mouth.

Sabrina sat next to him, in a cream sweater, and gave me a small sad wave.

"Well," Margaret said. "Look who found her way home with the wrong brother."

"Sit down, Margaret," said the man at the door. "I'm still the one who owns this table."

Jerome pulled out a chair for me and sat next to it.

Nobody spoke while the coffee went around.

I did not drink mine.

I watched his father's hands, clenched on the edge of the table.

Sweat stood along his hairline, though the room was not warm.

He lifted his water glass to speak.

"I've heard a lot of stories about my daughter-in-law this week," he said. "I want to say, in front of this family, that I..."

He stopped.

His glass tipped and the water ran across the cloth.

His eyes went wide and then empty, and he slid sideways out of his chair onto the dining room floor.

Somebody screamed. A chair went over.

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