when it was least expected. He had to shift to the edge of the chair and press his fingertips into his eyes.
Hannah scooted to the edge of her chair, too, until she was close. She touched his shoulder, and there was something secure about it, something steadying. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Michael said your dad and your uncle died in a car crash.”
Now Hunter knocked her hand away, and he straightened. “I don’t want to talk about it. What are you even doing out here? I don’t even know—”
“You can’t fix it,” she said, her voice strong and even, as if he hadn’t interrupted. “You can’t.”
“I know that! You don’t think I know that? I can’t fix any of it!”
“It wasn’t your fault. Has anyone ever told you that? It wasn’t your fault.”
“You don’t know anything.” God he was sick of the lectures. She and Michael were perfect for each other.
He flung himself out of the chair and stalked through the door.
Chris and Nick were in the living room with Becca. They all looked up when he passed. Becca called out to him, but he kept going—up the stairs instead of out the door.
Then he locked himself in the bathroom and tried to keep from punching the mirror.
He needed to calm down.
Breathe.
What the hell did Hannah know? Had Michael sent her out there? He was ready for a knock at the door, for someone else to want to talk.
It made him think of Kate, how she’d been willing to do anything but talk. Only her methods of diversion weren’t this unpleasant.
He turned the faucet on cold and splashed water on his face, letting the water run off his chin. He looked up at the mirror to make sure it didn’t look like he’d been crying.
Then he kept on looking.
What had Michael said yesterday? There is nothing about you that would make me say you look exactly like that guy. Take a look in a mirror sometime.
When his father had been alive, Hunter had always kept his hair short—not quite the military crew cut, but short enough to be preppy. He’d never had a single piercing.
Then the car had been crushed in the rock slide, and he’d found himself with twenty-six stitches across his hairline, leaving him with white hair to grow back in its place. He’d gone through the funeral, through the packing of their house, through his mother’s withdrawal, without feeling anything.
Except when she reminded him how much he looked like his father.
Then he’d felt resentment.
And anger.
And guilt.
He’d gone to the grocery store one day—because his mother couldn’t be bothered with basic needs—and some biker guy with three hundred and some tattoos and piercings had said, “Nice streak, kid. You need some metal and ink to go along with it.”
Then he’d handed him a card for a local tattoo place.
The burn of the needle was the first new thing Hunter had really felt in weeks.
So he’d kept asking for more.
He stared into his eyes in the mirror.
Michael was right. Hunter looked nothing like his father anymore.
And instead of feeling good about that, it made him feel like shit.
He ducked and dried his face on the towel.
Hannah was right, too. He couldn’t fix the accident. He knew that.
Could he fix this mess with his mother?
Did he want to? Did she want him to?
The upstairs was still empty, thank god. Hunter went into Nick’s bedroom, where the two boxes from his grandparents’ house were stacked in front of the closet.
He cracked open the first one. The photo of his father and uncle was right on top, just like yesterday. Hunter set that aside and kept going.
Yearbooks, from his high school in Pennsylvania. Old, outdated magazines—really, Mom? Old notebooks from school that he’d never need again. His Xbox, with the case of games.
Because he totally felt like gaming with everything else going on.
Some paperbacks he didn’t remember reading, more magazines, more crap he’d never need. And then a brown Pendaflex folder with a rubber band wrapped around it. He could see the edges of file folders and wondered if she’d packed up his old school records, too.
The rubber band snapped when he yanked it out of the box, and two folders slipped out. He expected old report cards.
He found records, but not the school kind.
The top folder was about the Merricks. Personal information that he already knew, like their address and phone number. Grainy photos that had to be several years old, because one included their parents. Chris looked about