Orion is both a co-protagonist and an unreliable narrator; though he is not intentionally deceptive, selective emphasis and emotional projection shape his account. Early in the novel, he casts Annie as a “damsel in distress” and later frames Viveca as a “mercenary predator” (101), revealing his tendency to view relationships through the lens of archetypal roles that center himself as rescuer. His retrospective admission that anger led him to villainize Viveca underscores the inaccuracy of his earlier judgments. In this way, Orion’s narration invites skepticism, as his account often reflects wounded pride more than objective truth.

Initially, Orion embodies a controlling, if “benevolent,” patriarchal impulse that the novel critiques as both empty and harmful. He equates his love for his family with his ability to protect them and positions himself as the “safe parent,” yet he resists confronting evidence of Annie’s abuse. His hypocrisy becomes evident when he condemns Annie for confiding in Andrew while having earlier unburdened himself of his own secrets—the sexual harassment charges he faced that led him to abandon his career—to their son in Cape Cod. Over time, however, Orion begins to interrogate his hero complex, questioning whether his need to protect others was rooted in love or “ego.”

As the form of masculinity Orion aspires to is intertwined with physical strength, his paralysis functions symbolically to dismantle his identity as a protector and authority figure. By the novel’s close, Orion demonstrates increased accountability and self-awareness, marking him as a dynamic character still in the process of change, which the unfinished manuscript he labors over mirrors.

Andrew, one of the novel’s narrators, is simultaneously a victim and perpetrator of violence. As a child, he endures physical abuse that remains largely unspoken within the family. His adult personality—disciplined, religiously devout, and outwardly controlled—suggests an attempt to impose order on this childhood trauma. Beneath his restraint lies volatility, revealed most climactically in his violent assault on Kent Kelly.

The novel reinforces the moral tension surrounding Andrew through repeated parallels between him and Kent, linking both their trajectories to intergenerational trauma. Annie’s remarks about Andrew’s physical resemblance—“And who else does Andrew resemble? Go ahead. Say it” and later (57), “It unnerves me to see, once again, how much my son resembles Kent” (670)—suggest a strong connection between the two characters. Besides reminding Annie of her central trauma, this resemblance foreshadows the convergence of the two men’s paths: Like Kent, Andrew responds to unresolved pain with violence. However, the novel complicates this parallel by foregrounding Andrew’s capacity for self-reflection. His internal struggle over whether to confess that he murdered Kent reveals an awareness Kent never demonstrates. By leaving Andrew’s final choice unresolved, the narrative emphasizes the importance of individual agency: The cycle of trauma may repeat itself, but it can also be interrupted—if Andrew chooses differently.

A habitual people-pleaser as well as a secondary narrator, Ariane serves as the family’s mediator; her relatives jokingly refer to her as “Saint Ariane” for her patience and tendency to smooth conflict. Her pursuit of pregnancy through artificial insemination links her to contemporary shifts in family structure, reinforcing the novel’s exploration of evolving definitions of intimacy.

Unlike Andrew, whose trauma erupts outward, Ariane internalizes her distress as self-doubt. In particular, Annie’s fixation on her daughter’s weight—revealed through Orion’s dialogue, “I mean it, Annie. I want you to get off her about her weight” (440)—manifests in Ariane’s body image struggles as an adult and thus serves as another example of intergenerational harm.

Ariane is a dynamic character who becomes the family’s truth-teller when she reveals Annie’s abuse to Orion. In doing so, she moves beyond her role as peacekeeper, recognizing how it facilitates harm. Ariane’s arc thus demonstrates her resilience and willingness to confront inherited patterns of trauma.

Marissa, another narrator, is initially positioned as a stereotypical “black sheep” defined by impulsivity, alcohol use, and a series of self-destructive decisions that mask deeper wounds. An aspiring actress, she often feigns resilience, though she privately struggles with abandonment. During her call with Orion in Chapter 27, Marissa acknowledges as much, linking her self-destructive behavior to early instability within her family. Similar to Ariane, Marissa thus internalizes her unresolved issues, though hers appear in her addiction and risky behaviors as opposed to people-pleasing. Her assault by Tristan McCabe contributes to the novel’s critique of and the systemic barriers that silence women: Fearful of legal consequences and reputational damage, she declines to pursue justice, reflecting a culture that polices women’s sexuality more aggressively than male violence.

Marissa’s arc offers a clear example of growth. By seeking professional treatment, pursuing therapy, and receiving career networking assistance, she acknowledges her trauma and finds healing. Marissa’s trajectory therefore reinforces the novel’s claims about the importance of confronting trauma.

Kent Kelly is the primary antagonist, embodying the most overt form of predation within the narrative. As Annie’s childhood abuser and Andrew’s eventual victim, he occupies a central position in the exploration of Intergenerational Trauma and Secrecy. Kent’s history reinforces this point: He was exposed to sexual behavior at a young age and later silenced when Irma Cook chose not to report the behavior. The absence of intervention allows his behavior to escalate unchecked. The novel thus situates his violence within a broader pattern of institutional failure and silence.

Nevertheless, the novel does not absolve Kent of responsibility for his actions. Kent’s narration repeatedly frames his actions as involuntary, shifting the blame onto his circumstances, and this very refusal to engage with his own agency becomes the clearest sign of his guilt. Unlike Andrew, for whom he is a foil, Kent avoids taking ownership of the harm he has caused, even privately. His death at Andrew’s hands introduces further moral ambiguity, not least because it means that Kent never has to answer for his crimes publicly. His narrative thus exemplifies the novel’s choice to withhold full resolution, leaving some questions of justice unsettled.

Ruth Fletcher narrates Part 2, providing historical context that exposes the roots of the novel’s intergenerational harm. She notes how her husband, Claude, married her for the domestic services she could provide: “I know that was why Claude asked me for my hand: not because he loved me […] but so that I could mother Belinda Jean” (327). Claude’s expectations reduced her to labor within the household, reinforcing a patriarchal structure that Ruth herself accepted. As stepmother to Belinda Jean, Ruth attempted to maintain order and respectability, yet her passivity contributed to her family’s unraveling: Her silence surrounding Claude’s murder of Josephus Jones set Belinda’s life on a downward course, revealing the futility of the homemaker/mother role Ruth had assumed in marrying Claude.

Ruth is also key to the novel’s critique of how institutional religion and social convention reinforce prejudice and silence under the guise of moral righteousness. Upon discovering Claude’s guilt, Ruth prays that God will conceal the truth: “I’d get down on my knees and pray that Rufus Jones, not Claude, would be arrested—that an innocent man would pay for the crime” (366). Here and throughout her narration, her use of religious language is ironic, as she invokes Christian doctrine to justify racial segregation and to protect a lie.

Agnello is a framing figure whose presence links the novel’s historical and contemporary narratives. As an elderly and elite art dealer and cultural authority, he appears to embody institutional power within a hierarchical art world. His recollections of Josephus Jones, in particular, situate him as a mediator of artistic legacy. However, Agnello does not act as a gatekeeper. Rather, he honors the work of marginalized artists; he recognizes the disruptive power of Jones’s Adam and Eve, and he later supports Annie’s career. His legacy continues through his son, Joe Agnello, who assists Marissa’s career.

Through Agnello, Lamb complicates simplistic critiques of elite artistic culture, portraying an establishment figure whose perspective is limited in some ways—he does not grasp the full extent of systemic racism—but who is nevertheless capable of reflection and inclusion. Moreover, his willingness to support art that unsettles social norms aligns with the broader assertion that creativity can, or even should, challenge entrenched hierarchies.

Josephus Jones never appears in the main narrative, but his story introduces many of the themes that the narrative explores, including the destructive force of systemic racism and the vulnerability of marginalized artistry. A gifted Black painter living in Three Rivers during the 1950s, Jones challenges social boundaries through his Adam and Eve, which depicts himself and Belinda Jean, a white woman, as the biblical pair. Such art bolsters the novel’s contention that creativity has a key role to play in bringing injustice to light. However, the community’s hostile response also reveals art’s limitations in remediating injustice, as entrenched power structures suppress art that threatens established norms.

Jones’s murder and the subsequent silence surrounding it link the novel’s exploration of familial trauma to the broader community. The impact of this event reverberates across generations, most directly in Belinda Jean’s withdrawal and isolation but also, more figuratively, in the violence and inequality that haunt the central relationships. His legacy therefore underscores the novel’s insistence that buried injustice continues to shape the present.

Viveca initially appears through Annie’s anxious and Orion’s suspicious lenses, which frame her as wealthy and potentially predatory, respectively. Orion’s early narration invites readers to question her motives, particularly in relation to Annie’s art and the prenuptial agreement. However, Orion later acknowledges that he cast Viveca as a manipulative “rich bitch” merely because of his own resentment. The exposure of this bias emphasizes Orion’s unreliability and reframes Viveca’s role within the story. Notably, Viveca does not wield the power that wealth and social status afford her coercively. Instead, she functions as a steady presence in Annie’s life, offering her the partnership and love she has long sought.