For several seconds after Locke leaves, nobody moves.
Dad stands near the desk with one hand braced against its surface, Mayhem stares at the floor as though he might find a better version of himself there, and Jade keeps holding my hand with both of hers.
I should stay. I know that.
I should sit down, breathe, let the anger settle, wait for Locke to come back when he has finished walking off whatever part of our argument he couldn’t bear to carry in front of everyone else. We should talk like adults. Like partners. Like two people who’ve spent weeks proving that difficult things don’t have to become destructive things.
Instead, I pull my hand free from Jade’s and walk toward the door.
“Zara,” Dad says.
“I need to talk to him.”
Nobody argues with that, maybe because they all know I’
