Page 104 of You Know Why

“Do you know the password?”

He shakes his head. “Naw. He said you did, though.”

“I barely know what this is, Four. He never gave me a password.”

“Hmm.” My son, the sphinx. “He said you’d know it. He said it would be easy for you.”

“Yes, well, I doubt he was counting on me being concussed and not remembering half my life. What else has Dad been showing you?”

He’s quiet. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to get mad?”

“I promise. Why would I get mad?”

“Okay. But we have to go to the shelter.”

Best-Laid Plans

Eden

When they fight, the two sisters, it’s like a dark soul attacking the light. I don’t blame Margot for fleeing. When she comes back—if she comes back—I’ll be here to comfort her. She has the short end of the stick in this situation. Always relegated to being second, even though they are identical twins. Margot has told me things about their childhood, how naughty Brooklyn could be, how she got into trouble, how Margot stayed home and read and worked on her ballet while Brooklyn partied hard.

I know a few other things, too.

I watch Four lead his mother to the forest behind their house. I want to follow and see what they’re up to, why they’re sneaking around to that creepy shelter. Brooklyn certainly hasn’t been very gracious about all the help I’ve been giving her. Margot reassured me that it’s the brain injury, that she’s just having trouble coping with all the change and all the worry, but I don’t believe her.

Brooklyn doesn’t trust me.

And that makes me not want to trust her.

We’ll all get along fine if she just lets me handle things. All I want to do is help. If she wants me to leave, I will. But she doesn’t. She wants me here. She needs me here. She hasn’t realized it yet. But she will.

Back in the kitchen, I fling open the refrigerator doors. I went shopping this morning and the larder is full. I will make her a brilliant meal and show her how indispensable I am.

A tiny ballerina pliés into the room. She is the most adorable creature I have ever seen.

“Neve, sweetie, what should we make for dinner?”

She twirls through the kitchen. “Can we have tacos again?”

“We just had tacos. What about something more elegant? What would Cinderella want?”

“Curds and whey!” She giggles.

“That’s the wrong fairy tale, goose. How about . . . coq au vin for the ladies and croque monsieur for the littles?”

“Oui. Merci beaucoup,” she says. I can’t help the smile. My French lessons are paying off.

“Très bien, ma chérie,” I reply. “Help me get things together, and we’ll surprise your mommy.”

It’s such a pleasure baking and cooking with all of Brooklyn’s high-end tools. Everything is top of the line, from the Wolf stove and double ovens to the matching Le Creuset cookware. Her knives are wüsthof, the fridge a Sub-Zero, the frying pans Calphalon, the spoons and spatulas teak. In another world, like at home in Malogen, I would find these traditional but expensive accoutrements performative, but this is different. Brooklyn needs the very best for her work. I’m sure they wrote it all off. And to be honest, I’ve enjoyed learning how to cook with these luxuries. Everything just tastes better.

I have dinner well underway when Margot comes back. Her eyes are red from weeping, and I want to hold her. Show her I care. But she brushes past me, straight to the oversize Wolf stove. She lifts the heavy cast-iron lid off the massive Dutch oven and wafts her hand over the chicken.

“This smells good. Sorry for stomping out like that,” she says. “She just frustrates me sometimes.”

“Oh, I understand. I had a sister once, too. We fought like cats and dogs. Didn’t mean we didn’t love each other. Sisters are always so complicated, even if you’re incredibly close, like you and Brooklyn.”

She leans against the marble counter—Carrara, honed, three-inch slab, ogee edge. I’m learning.