He ducked and the plate hit the door behind him, shattering. The pieces fell to the floor, shooting outward in a dangerous, stoneware shrapnel arc.The bowl came next, but Duncan lowered his head, heard the second crash, and pressed forward into the room, grabbing the mug from Katie’s hand before it too could become ammunition. “Stop, it, Katie.”“Where were you?”“Out.”She yanked her hand back, trying to get the mug loose, undoubtedly intending to crack open his skull. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago. You promised we’d play Scrabble.”“I know,” he said, sinking onto the bed. He couldn’t tell her he’d been out at the house, debating for the thousandth time whether to sell it—or torch it. His aunt had loved that big Victorian, and so had Katie. Until—Duncan pushed the thoughts away. He peeled Katie’s fingers off the mug and laid it on the floor, pushing it away with his foot. “I’m sorry.”“Mrs. Loman is terrible. I think she hates me. And she can’t spell, for God’s sake.”
