Chapter 6

Grant pulled out a chair and sat down at the small laminate table.

He reached into the brown bakery bag, broke a cinnamon bagel in half, and set one piece onto a napkin.

"We have an understanding, Maren?" he asked, keeping his voice beneath the hum of the refrigerator.

Down the short hallway, the squeak of Willa's bedroom door broke the quiet.

I looked from the counter toward the hall. Willa was already walking toward us, her plastic box of markers tucked under one arm and her drawing clutched in both hands.

My phone felt heavy in my back pocket.