The right thumbnail she always destroyed when nervous.
She was destroying it now.
“Ellie.”
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
I remained by the door.
“You don’t get to call me that yet.”
Her eyes lowered.
“Okay.”
I had prepared questions during the drive.
They vanished.
Instead I said, “Show me your knee.”
She pulled the blanket aside.
There it was.
A white uneven scar.
I felt nauseated.
“Anyone could know about that.”
“I suppose.”
“What was inside Dad’s red toolbox that Mom never knew about?”
Her eyes lifted.
“His cigarettes.”
“What kind?”
“Camels.”
“Where?”
“Under the removable tray.”
“What else?”
Rebecca almost smiled.
“The Christmas present you bought Marcus when you were seventeen.”
My face burned.
“Stop.”
“You asked.”
I’d hidden a box of condoms there because Mom searched our bedrooms.
Only Rebecca knew.
I dragged the visitor’s chair backward and sat.
“Who died?”
Rebecca’s expression changed.
