Callan sighed.
“Bryony.”
“No. I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“You saw her.”
“She was drunk.”
“She wasn’t that drunk.”
He tightened his hands around the steering wheel.
“I’ll have a word with her.”
I looked at him.
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And if she does it again?”
“She won’t.”
I wanted to believe him.
I did believe him.
That was the problem.
I leaned my head against the window.
“I just don’t understand why she keeps doing it.”
Callan was quiet for several seconds.
Then he reached across and squeezed my knee.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
He squeezed my knee again.
“Trust me.”
So I did.
That was the first mistake I made.
The next morning, the house was already awake before eight.
Someone was making coffee.
Someone was arguing about the music.
Children were running through the hallway.
My mother was complaining that nobody had brought enough bread.
