Lila was laughing in the kitchen because Tommy had dumped cereal into a saucepan and proudly called it “breakfast soup.” Phoebe was yelling that it was disgusting. Sybil was hopping around, searching for her missing shoe.
Ethan and Adam were arguing over a hoodie neither of them even owned, and little Benji dragged his blanket behind him like a sleepy ghost.
For ten seconds, we were just a loud, chaotic, ordinary family.
Then I opened the door.
Two police officers stood on the porch.
“Are you Rowan?” one of them asked.
I didn’t need to hear anything else. Something in his expression told me everything before he even spoke.
“There’s been an accident,” he said quietly. “Your parents didn’t survive.”
Behind me, the laughter stopped.
I turned back toward the house, where seven pairs of eyes were already looking at me, waiting for me to explain what was happening.
I closed the door halfway so they wouldn’t see the officers’ faces.
