There were no screams or shouts; her parents didn’t yell. Instead a frigid hostility would permeate the air, like some unseen but deadly toxin. Her mother, the ice queen, had perfected the technique. She could rip your insides out with a few wintry words, then turn around and talk to a stranger on the phone, all warm and honey charm. Her father was either too gutless or indifferent to stand up to her. Lauren had only heard him raise his voice once in sixteen years, and it had been at her, when she rode her bike into the side of his new Porsche and scratched the paint. Even then, she suspected the only reason he got so pissed was because her mother was. She closed the door to her room, a little surprised her parents were home together at the same time. That didn’t happen often. She went to her iPod and turned it on. Sarah McLachlan poured her heart out from the speakers. Her father said the singer reminded him of Linda Ronstadt and Bonnie Raitt. Lauren tried not to focus on McLachlan’s first name.
