Dad looks up from a ream of paperwork, nonplussed.
They are not the only two in the house tonight, but it certainly feels like they are. Jonny left an hour ago to pick up Tish for dinner. Milena is not bustling in the kitchen or singing along to Ukrainian pop while she vacuums. Aunt Thea has not made herself comfortable with a glass of wine and a guilty pleasure on TLC.
Mom came home from Panoptic, ate a half-pint of mint chip, and went directly to bed.
“Migraine?” Dad asked her on her way up the stairs. He was all set to start policing the household noise level.
“No,” Mom sighed. “It’s just been that kind of day.”
So it is just Dad and Abby in the bizarre quiet.
She crosses her arms in the doorway of his study. “The other night, coming home from rehearsal. I hit him with my car, I mean.” She grimaces. “Technically, I didn’t kill him myself.”
Dad frowns at her a little sideways, and he nods at his phone facedown on the desk. “I’ll get McKenna on the line to take your confession.”