“Damn. You live here. Really?”
“Since I was born. All thirty-two years. Never anywhere else.”
Mitch was staring at me like I was a museum exhibit.
“What?” I looked around, taking in the run-down edges and mismatched colors and trying not to wince. “Why? What was your house like when you were growing up?”
“Which one?”
“You moved around a lot?”
“Yeah, in a way.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the door, then back at me. “You ready to get on the road? I told Raven we’d be at the club by nine.”
Not an answer. His childhood houses were shabbier than this and he’d moved around a lot? Or was he one of the silver-spoon mansion kids? If so, why’d he move around so much? From resort to city and back again? What did I actually know about Mitch? Not much, I realized. Not much at all.