She was standing in our backyard in 1989, holding a bowl of peaches, laughing at something just outside the frame. Her hair was blowing across her face. The house behind her was still only half-painted because back then we could afford one side at a time.
“We did not survive all of that,” I whispered, “so they could throw me away like old furniture.”
Downstairs, a door opened.
Melissa laughed softly.
Brian groaned.
Someone was awake.
I closed every file, copied everything onto two flash drives, and hid one inside the hollow bottom of Helen’s jewelry box. The other went into my jacket pocket.
Then I showered, shaved, and put on my best charcoal suit.
The same suit I had worn to Helen’s funeral.
At seventy years old, a man understands that some clothes are not for celebration.
Some clothes are armor.
When I came downstairs, the dining room still looked like a crime scene made of birthday cake, dirty plates, and spilled wine.
