Madoc and Fallon say nothing, but I can see their heavy breathing as if they’re struggling for air.

I know Fallon and how she thinks.

She’ll get the boys home. Talk to them. Everything will calm down and all of this will pass. Hunter will see reason.

Madoc, on the other hand, has a plan for every contingency, but if he’s silent, then this was a twist he didn’t plan for. He was bluffing about switching schools, and Hunter called him on it. He’s not sure what to do, or how to fix it. Not yet.

As we leave the police station, I finally understand how hard it is to be a parent. To watch your kids make mistakes.

They won’t learn until they learn, and I know Madoc is struggling. But maybe sometimes the hardest part isn’t what to say and when, but rather, when to say nothing at all.

And how to know when it’s that time.

I reach down and clutch the bottom of my bag, feeling the book and diary inside.

Talking isn’t always the answer.

There are many other ways to teach your kids their lessons, after all.

• • •

I’m making my way through house, toward the kitchen, when I hear the clock chime midnight, and my eyes burn with exhaustion. Today’s soccer game feels like so long ago.

Passing the photos in the hallway, I see the ones from my parents’ wedding—a charming, small, and candlelit ceremony in a rustic barn north of here—Jared and Tate’s wedding—which seems even more special to me now that I know more about their past—Fallon and Madoc—who have no photos from their wedding but instead a great shot of her on his shoulders at the top of Mount Fuji on their honeymoon, arms spread wide and smiles on their faces with the clouds below them . . .

And Jax and Juliet, who finally gave my mother the big family wedding she’d wanted for at least one of her kids.

I hear voices coming from the kitchen, and I head there, knowing I’ll find my mother.

“We spent how much in New York?” my father asks, sounding shocked. “Jesus, we didn’t go to Paris! What the hell?”

I snort, seeing him leaning over my mother as she sits in her little desk along the wall, both of them studying the screen of the laptop. She’s no doubt doing the family bookkeeping, and I hear my dad having the same meltdown every month.

“Don’t look at me,” my mom says. “I bought one pair of shoes. You spend more money on Fifth Avenue than I do, Pretty Boy.”

“Pretty Boy?” he blurts outs. And then he reaches for her, squeezing her cheeks as he leans in and kisses her.

She laughs, trying to twist away from him. “Stop it!”

I take a minute to lean my shoulder into the door frame, watching them.

And I see it. I see Jase and Kat, their playfulness and flirting, the ease and comfort they have in each other. My father and how much he loves her and my mother and how she resembles that girl in the garage, working on his car. The way they complement each other and know when to bend. All of these things I never noticed before.

My dad releases her and starts studying the spreadsheet again. “Well, can we deduct some of this? We talked about work while we were there, right? Just claim the trip as a business expense.”

“No!” she protests and swats his hand away from the mouse. “Go away. I don’t mess with your case files. Stay away from my numbers. They’re all organized.”

He smiles and stands up straight.

“Hey,” I say when his eyes fall on me. “How’s it going?”

He sighs. “Fine. Your mother’s a good woman,” he muses, heading to the refrigerator. “She keeps me out of jail by talking me out of tax fraud.”

“Damn right,” Mom adds. “You make enough. You can pay your taxes, cheapskate.”

I watch them, smiling, and wonder what would’ve happened if my mom had never gotten help. If my dad had never gotten a divorce from Madeline or Patricia. If they’d never stopped trying to hold each other up.

I realize that now.

No one else can make you happy, and putting that expectation on the other person will doom both of you. You don’t look at someone and say “you can make my life better.” You look at them and say “I can make your life better.” Be a blessing, not a burden.

I clear my throat. “May I talk to Mom for a few minutes?”

My dad pauses mid-sip, staring at me. “Um, sure.” He nods, his eyes shooting to my mom. “You’ll tell me everything she says later, right?”

“Ha-ha,” she mocks. “She keeps my secrets. I’ll keep hers.”

“That better not be true.” He gives her a scowl, but I can see his grin as he heads out of the room. “I’ll be in my office.”

Mom types quickly on the computer, pounding the final key with some extra punch, and then turns to me, waiting.

Inhaling a deep breath, I reach in my bag and pull out the book, setting it on her desk, right in front of her.

Her eyes fall on the cover and stay there, no surprise registering on her face at all.

“You had Pasha mail me the book?”

She hesitates, but finally gives a small nod. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

Pasha lives in Toronto, setting up Jared’s production line, and my mother didn’t want me to see the book postmarked from Shelburne Falls. I guess she wanted me to read it before I started hunting down who sent it?

Occam’s razor.

Reaching back into my bag, I pull out the diary from her closet and plop it down on top of the novel. “Well, whoever wrote it had to have access to this. You, right?”