Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone (Ernest Cunningham, #1)

by Benjamin Stevenson

Call me a reliable narrator. Everything I tell you will be the truth, or, at least, the truth as I knew it to be at the time that I thought I knew it. Hold me to that.

That’s a lie, actually. I wouldn’t be friends with people who called after midnight.

But age gives perspective, and now I know the difference between being popular and being talked about.

The wind was cruel; it found every crevasse in my clothes, invaded and patted me down like I owed it money.

One day you’ll realize family isn’t about whose blood runs in your veins, it’s who you’d spill it for.”

Sofia shivered, cupped her hands over her mouth and blew into them, then remembered she’d just been handling a corpse and returned them to her sides.

I’ll hold it here to mention that I know some authors are incapable of having a woman throw up without it being a clue to a pregnancy. These same authors seem to think nausea is the only indication of childbearing, not to mention their belief that vomit shoots out the woman’s mouth within hours of plot-convenient fertilization. By some authors, I mean male ones. Far be it from me to tell you which clues to pay close attention to, but Sofia’s not pregnant, okay? She’s allowed to throw up of her own volition.

It was easier to tell where my dad had been than to see where he was. The empty armchair in the living room. The plate in the oven. Stubble in the bathroom sink. Three empty holsters in a six-pack in the fridge. My father was footprints, residue.

Thankfully he didn’t affectionately punch me in the arm, otherwise we would have had to go outside and play catch, and I hadn’t brought my baseball glove.

“Clearly I’ve made an impression. You’ve already invited me to meet your mother. And stop staring at my lips.” I didn’t tell her I was thinking of peeling them, not kissing them, but either way, I felt myself blush.

“Family is gravity,”