“They snuck out,” Lo declares, his voice edged. “Do you know how long they’ve been begging us to have their own villa here? Oh but I’m fourteen, Dad. You just need to trust me—what the fuck are you doing?” He cuts himself off when he sees a pack of cigarettes in Garrison’s hands. Garrison blinks. “I’m knitting a sweater.” He puts a cigarette to his lips, and Lo plucks it out and chucks it across the path. “Smoking’s not helping anything,” Lo snaps. “My kid is out who-the-hell-knows-where at one a.m. on an island,” Garrison refutes. “Smoking is helping me.” “Fuck off, both of you,” Ryke swears.
