Allison closed her eyes. For a moment the living room held only the sound of the furnace kicking on, the soft mechanical breath of a house that did not know it had become a courtroom.
Daniel stood. He turned toward Allison. The navy quarter-zip suddenly felt too warm. The light stubble on his jaw itched. He heard his own pulse in his ears, ridiculous and loud, like a clock that had forgotten how to keep polite time.
"Allison."
She opened her eyes. Green. Steady. Not innocent.
"There's more to it," she said again. "Not here. Not with her sitting there like I've committed a crime. I need you to listen to me first. Privately."
"Privately," Daniel repeated. The word tasted like something that had spoiled. "My mother is sitting on our sofa with a suitcase because someone cancelled her room. You are that someone. What private conversation do you imagine will make that into anything other than what it is?"