That year, Jeremy watched him from the moment he entered the house.
We were halfway through dinner when Jeremy placed his fork on the table.
The sound was barely noticeable.
Still, it silenced everyone.
He looked at me first.
Then my parents.
Then his father.
At last, he pointed directly at Zane.
In a rough, unused voice I had not heard in eight years, my son said, “You knew why I stopped talking.”
No one moved.
The color vanished from Zane’s face.
I shoved my chair backward so quickly it nearly fell. “Jeremy?”
His breathing turned fast and shallow. Terror crossed his face, as though the words had escaped before he could stop them.
Then he pushed away from the table, ran upstairs, and slammed his bedroom door.
I moved to follow him, but Zane grabbed my wrist.
I looked down at his hand.
Then I studied his face.
For the first time in eight years, I saw fear there.
Not sorrow.
Fear.
