I handed the phone back.
“Go to my
house.”
“What?”
“Take your truck. Park behind the garage.”
“And you?”
“I’m going home first.”
He stared at me as if I had lost my mind.
“You’re going home?”
“Yes.”
“What if Dad’s there?”
“He won’t be yet.”
“How do you know?”
I glanced at the time.
8:42.
“Because your father has habits.”
Even now.
Even after everything.
I knew Mark.
He never rushed home from anywhere.
Not from golf.
Not from dinner.
Not from betrayal, apparently.
Daniel searched my face.
“What are you going to do?”
“Pack a bag.”
“For you?”
“Partly.”
I left him at the cemetery.
Before walking away, I touched my father’s headstone once.
“Watch us,” I whispered.
Then I drove home.
The house looked exactly the same.
That was the strangest part.
The porch light glowed warmly.
The wreath I had bought last weekend hung on the front door.
