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wishes I’d never been born,” I said.
    “What! That’s ridiculous, Ian. Not your mother. She loved you even before you were born.” He went to the doorway and called her name. “Where did you get that stupid idea?”
    I shrugged. He’d have to see for himself. We’d always been close, Dad and I. Those first days after the funeral, we’d cried on each other’s shoulders. Two guys hugging and crying. Then all the visitors stopped coming, and we were alone. Mom, Dad, and me. The three of us at that kitchen table. Three, not four. And Mom barely looking at me, thinking it was my fault.
    “Hi, guys.” Mom turned from me to Dad. “Supper’s ready. The lasagna’s okay, and I made a big salad too.”
    “That can wait a minute, Claire. We need to straighten out something first with Ian, and I’m not talking about this bedroom.”
    Her brow narrowed. “Good. Because I’m not touching it.”
    Promise?
But I kept my mouth shut.
    “Let’s sit down,” said Dad, glancing pointedly at me.
    I moved my clothes, baseball and glove, earphones, and books from my bed to my desk and offered the desk chair to my mom. Dad and I sat on the bed.
    “Ian thinks you blame him for the accident, Claire. He needs to hear that you don’t. It’s time to clear the air about this and begin again.”
    Mom’s forehead wrinkled before she shifted toward me. “Think about this, Ian. Were you driving the car that hit your sister? The answer is no. Did you push her in front of the moving vehicle? Again, the answer is no. Therefore, you’re not guilty.” She paused and gave me a quick smile. “You seem confused, honey. I thought you liked logic.”
    I did, but she was hiding behind it. Using it to distract.
    “Forget the accident,” she added, jumping from the chair. “Want to know what really ticks me off, what you’re really guilty of? Let’s start with not taking responsibility. Like with this messy room. Like playing video games all the time and hanging out with your friends instead of coming home. Like arguing with me about looking after Kayla when I asked. All you want to do is fool around. All you think about is yourself. How are you going to go off to college when you can’t get organized? You’re spoiled rotten.” Her eyes flashed at my dad. “That’s what he’s guilty of, and it’s our fault.”
    Mom was on a roll. It must have made her feel better. “None of my friends have to—”
    “Our son’s a good kid,” said Dad, breaking in. “His report card proves it with all those As. And now I’m confused. We were talking about the accident. How did we ever get onto this topic?”
    “I think they call it being passive-aggressive,” I said, mentally flipping through the psych chapters I’d had to read for school. “She’s pretending to be calm about the important question, the one about blaming me for Kayla, which, by the way, she never directly answered. And then she switched everything around and yelled at me for other, less important things.”
    My folks were silent. They stared at me with wide eyes and open mouths, stunned, especially Mom. I hadn’t been looking for a “gotcha” moment. Just wanted the truth. And I got it. Mom saw me as a spoiled brat. She’d like to blame me—or someone—for Kayla’s death. She needed a scapegoat, but she wasn’t sure who it should be.
    I guess psychology came in handy after all.

Chapter 4
     
     
    JACK BARNES
    January, four months after accident
     
    I dreaded going home today. Dreaded my upcoming talk with Claire. As if the recent holidays weren’t bad enough for the family, my business concerns had become worse. With the lousy economy, home buyers were drying up. Potential buyers thought two and three times before investing in a house, and when they did, they wanted everything for free! Did they think we were HGTV or something?
    After meeting with my accountant that afternoon, I headed home and hoped for the best. Claire would have to pull herself together and