Callan sighed.
“Bryony.”
“No. I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“You saw her.”
“She was drunk.”
“She wasn’t that drunk.”
He tightened his hands around the steering wheel.
“I’ll have a word with her.”
I looked at him.
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And if she does it again?”
“She won’t.”
I wanted to believe him.
I did believe him.
That was the problem.
I leaned my head against the window.
“I just don’t understand why she keeps doing it.”
Callan was quiet for several seconds.
Then he reached across and squeezed my knee.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
He squeezed my knee again.
“Trust me.”
So I did.
That was the first mistake I made.
The next morning, the house was already awake before eight.
Someone was making coffee.
Someone was arguing about the music.
Children were running through the hallway.
My mother was complaining that nobody had brought enough bread.
Sasha was outside directing people around the garden as if she’d been born to host parties.
I helped Bram carry food from the kitchen.
He seemed distracted.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Just tired.”
“You barely slept.”
“Neither did you.”
I smiled weakly.
“I’m fine.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he said, “If you need anything, tell me.”
There was something strange in his voice.
I almost asked him what he meant.
But someone called his name from the garden.
He turned away.
I picked up the serving dish.
And walked outside.
Music was playing.
People were laughing.
My father was arguing with one of my cousins about football.
My mother was talking to an aunt near the patio.
Children were running between the tables.
Then I heard laughter.
Not normal laughter.
Nervous laughter.
The kind people make when something has happened that nobody knows how to respond to.
Then silence.
I stepped through the back door.
And stopped.
My sister was kissing my husband.
