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his eyes. It’s frightening.
    “What happened?” Trey asks them above the noise of the cousins.
    Mom snaps her chin toward us. She looks right through us and shakes her head ever so slightly. Dad doesn’t blink.
    I stare, and then I grab Trey and Rowan by the elbows and push them toward the living room.
    “What the hell,” Trey mutters.
    “No idea,” I say.
    “It looked bad,” Rowan says.
    Later, when we’re trying to do our homework, I look out the window and see Dad driving off in the delivery car. Mom comes into the living room, fists clenched like she’s going to lose it. She looks at us, and we look at her, and she says, “They believe the fire began upstairs, not in the restaurant.”
    My eyes widen. Nobody says anything, waiting for Mom to continue.
    She does. Her voice is low. “It looks like it started from a worn extension cord in the living room next to some of Dad’s . . . stuff.”
    My heart leaps to my throat.
    “With all the hoards of newspapers and books and recipes,” she continues, her voice straining, “well . . . there was no chance of saving anything.”
    I drop my homework and stand up, Trey and Rowan right behind me, and we wrap our arms around our mom. Her tears fall now, and a groan from deep inside her chokes its way out in a coughing sob like I’ve never heard before. I glance at Trey, and his eyes are as scared as I think mine must be.
    Mom cries for a minute, and then she sniffs and wipes her eyes with her sleeve and tries to laugh, embarrassed for losing it in front of us, I guess.
    “We’re sorry, Mom,” Rowan says.
    “He feels just terrible.” Mom’s laugh disappears. She shakes her head. “He walked out in a daze. I don’t know where he’s going.” She lets out a shuddering breath and runs her index fingers under her eyes, absently checking for mascara smudges, and for a split second, in her vulnerability she reminds me of Rowan.
    “Do you want me to go find him?” Trey asks.
    Mom nods. Her voice cracks when she says, “I don’t know what he’ll do.”
    Five things I want to say right now:
    1. He’s a douche for making you worry.
    2. Maybe it would be best if he does just go kill himself, so we can get on with our lives.
    3. Okay, those are the only two things I can think of, but dammit, I’m pissed.
    4. And now I remember why I don’t love him anymore.
    5. Because I can’t.

Twelve
    Rowan stays with Mom, and I go with Trey to find Dad.
    “Back home, you think?” Trey asks as he pulls the meatball truck out of the parking lot across from Aunt Mary’s. He winces turning the wheel, and I know his shoulder must hurt, even though he doesn’t like to admit it.
    “Home would be the logical guess,” I say. And then I let out a huge sigh. “Now what?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Do you think he’s going to . . .”
    “No.” He puts on his sunglasses when we turn west. “Mom wouldn’t send us if she really thought he’d do it.”
    We drive in silence as the sun sets. Trey pulls into the alley and goes toward the restaurant’s back parking lot.There’s a portable fence now around our plot of destruction and there are NO TRESPASSING signs posted. Trey parks next to the delivery car and we get out. He glances in the delivery car’s window, probably to make sure Dad didn’t blow his brains out in the front seat or something.
    The substitute beat cop, Officer Bentley, is doing his rounds. He sees us and comes over. “I’m so sorry about your place,” he says.
    “Thanks,” I reply. “It pretty much sucks.”
    Officer Bentley turns to Trey. “How’s the arm?” he asks. “I heard you took a bullet over at the UC shooting.”
    I can’t quite read the tone of his voice, and maybe it’s the uniform, but I think I detect a hint of suspicion. I glance at Trey.
    “It’s not bad,” Trey says lightly, which makes me think he’s detecting it too. “I was lucky. It’s healing nicely. Starting physical therapy soon.” He looks beyond