(Rebecca's POV)
The kitchen goes quiet.
Eric's fork stops halfway to his mouth, egg still balanced on the tines.
His father sets his coffee mug down slow, careful, both hands wrapped around it like it might make a sound he doesn't want it to make.
His mother's eyes move. To Eric. To me. Back to Eric. Not anger — I know anger, I've spent six years learning every shape it can take, and this isn't that.
Something else. Something I can't name from across the table, no matter how hard I try to read it in the half-second before she speaks.
"Excuse us." Her voice stays gentle. Final in a way that doesn't leave room for questions. "Eric. A word."
She's already standing, chair scraping back against tile the same way it did when we first arrived. His father follows, coffee mug abandoned steam
