Arlene's POV
Nicholson demanded braids this morning, and as I weave the strands through my fingers, my mind keeps drifting to that damning file spread across our coffee table. The weight of its contents presses against my consciousness like a persistent headache.
Rockford approaches me, clutching his tie with the determination of a five-year-old who refuses to admit defeat. He has been practicing the knots for weeks now, just like his father, though neither of them has mastered the technique. I doubt they ever will.
"Mommy, you look tired," he observes, standing perfectly still as I adjust his collar and guide the silk through the proper loops.
"Just have some work projects keeping me busy." The lie rolls off my tongue easily enough.
"Is it really true that Auntie Gianna is gone forever?" Nicholson questions from her spot beside me on Rockford's mattress, her voice carrying that peculiar mix of curiosity and concern that children possess.
