At dawn, Lucy was already in the kitchen stirring oatmeal.
She had her back to me when I walked in, shoulders slightly raised, the particular posture of someone who has already decided what to say if asked.
I stood in the doorway.
“Who was outside our room last night?”
Her hand froze mid-stir. Just for a half second. Long enough.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“You took my hand,” I said quietly. “You blocked the light from the door on purpose. I watched you do it.”
Her face went pale when she turned around. She glanced toward the ceiling, toward the room directly above the kitchen where Steven was still sleeping.“Please,” she said. “Not here.”
That answer frightened me more than a denial would have.
A denial would have been manageable — something to argue with, something to press against. Please, not here was something else. It was a confirmation that there was something to discuss, and that the walls of my kitchen were not safe for it.
