He opens the door before I knock.
“Grant,” he says, voice warm, familiar. “Glad you made it.”
I offer a nod in return, stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly I’m sixteen again—lost in the echo of the day that split my life in two.
“You all right, son?”
His question is casual, but his eyes are already scanning me for the answer.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. “About Mom.”
The words hit like a small detonation. His expression stills. The practiced warmth fades into something fractured. Like it always does when someone mentions Mom.
“Of course,” he replies after a pause. “Come into the study.”
He turns, leading the way down the familiar corridor. We move in silence. Not awkward—but deliberate. Like neither of us wants to interrupt the ghosts still whispering through the halls.
The study is as it’s always been. Dimly lit. Lined with old books, framed accolades, and the soft crackle of a fire already burning in the hearth—even in the heat of June.
He moves to the liquor cart, lifting the decanter. The soft chime of crystal echoes, but I don’t follow him in yet.
I stop just past the doorway, my attention snagged by the stretch of wall to the right of the entrance—plain, unremarkable. I’ve passed it thousands of times. Never once looked at it. Never knew how significant it was. But tonight, it pulls at me.
Beyond it, I can make out the foyer. The curve of the staircase. The marble floor that glints beneath the chandelier. I know exactly where she turned and ran up the stairs for the last time.
I know the spot where she fell.
Where she looked at me before she took a final breath.
“Grant?”
My father’s voice pulls me back. He’s holding two glasses of whiskey, one extended toward me.
I turn to him, take it with a nod.
“Yeah.”
We sit in the wingback chairs that have faced each other for decades. As a boy, they made me feel small. Tonight, they feel like prisons.
I lift the glass to my lips and let the whiskey burn a trail down my throat. It’s not courage exactly, but it’s close enough.
My father settles into the chair across from me, the fire casting shadows that flicker along the edges of his face. He lifts his glass but doesn’t drink, watching me like he’s waiting for a storm to hit.
“What’s on your mind, son?”
What a fucking understatement.
I set my glass down, the sound sharp against the lacquered wood. My hand moves to the inside of my suit jacket, pulling free the short stack of photographs. They’re enlarged. Matte finish. Every detail crisp. Unforgiving.
I toss them onto the table between us. Watch as they fan out—sliding just far enough for him to see a flash of skin, a desk, a face he once knew far too intimately.
He frowns, reaching for them slowly, carefully setting his own drink aside as he pulls his reading glasses from his breast pocket. He slips them on with deliberate grace, like this is just another contract, just another negotiation.
“What are these?” he murmurs.
I don’t answer. Not directly.
“I’m sure you’ll recognize them.”
