He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“My stuff’s moved. Not much, just… different.”
He laughed. “Probably you. Or the cat?”
“We don’t have a cat.”
“Oh. Right.”
I crossed my arms. “Owen, I’m serious. My earrings were rearranged yesterday. Now my perfume.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think my mom’s snooping?”
“I don’t know. But it feels like someone’s touching my things.”
“She’d never do that,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“She’s my mom, not a spy.”
