I didn’t know yet how those facts connected. I knew, with the same flat certainty I used to feel reading a compromised comms log, that they did.
My mother arrived twenty minutes later, mascara running, asking is she going to be okay four different ways without once asking what had happened to her.
“Mom. Did you see Vanessa fill that cup?”
“Allison. Please. Not now.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Your sister loves that little girl.”
She hadn’t answered the question. I noted that too.
Michael found me at the vending machines an hour later, two coffees in hand.
“Something about tonight doesn’t add up.”
“I know.”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look.”
“The one before you tell me you’re going somewhere I can’t follow.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to find out exactly what happened in my own house tonight. Quietly. With proof. Before I say one accusing word to anyone.”
