“You understand responsibility, Evie,” he’d said, his voice raspy over the phone line. “And you understand silence.”

He was right. Now, that silence wrapped around me again as voices drifted through the closed front door.

My mother’s voice came first—low, sharp, controlled. “She’s here. I saw her car.”

My stomach dropped.

My father replied, his tone clipped in that familiar way that meant he was already irritated. “Good. Everyone remember what we talked about?”

I swallowed hard. What we talked about?

Then my younger brother, Jason, laughed. A short, careless sound. “Just don’t let her get dramatic. She always does that.”