They sit in broken silence with so much to say.
“And Antaris?” Soft and wary, there’s sadness laced in John’s question.
“School helps, but he has nightmares. I used to have them like this when I was his age. He had one tonight, but he’s asleep now. I’ve been meaning to ask if he had them ... before?”
“Not often, no. Is he ...”
“Talking? No.” Hiram hesitates to get the next question out even though he’s dying to know. “What was he like?”
The ensuing silence is so unbearable, Hiram almost changes the subject, until John’s ragged sigh cuts through the line, his exhausted exhale is soul deep. “Antaris was ... shy with strangers, but overallhappy, creative, and observant. He loved the bow ties Grace made him. Like her, he was curious. Smiled often, laughed more. She used to call him the sun because he brightened her world.”
Hiram tenses.
Compel the sun to shine.
“I—I miss her every day.” John’s pain is palpable. “I can’t believe she’s gone, but I also can’t shake the feeling that Grace knew she wouldn’t see him grow up.”
No combination of words can return what he lost. “Grace sent a stone message to the FCD three months before ... She left clues for the investigators, and called herself adying star. She said she had Seen her end.”
Knowledge is a double-edged sword that cuts John deep. He bleeds the sound of pain slipping through the line. Hiram pulls the phone away, giving him a moment of peace to grieve the daughter he raised from childhood. When he presses the phone back to his ear, the line is still and silent.
“I’m sorry,” Hiram murmurs.
“Nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault. I ...” A pause. “They told me she was murdered, but since she was a victim of a serial killer in the States, they would be handling the case. Have you—”
“They’ve spoken to me. Twice. They wanted to speak to Antaris, too, but I wouldn’t let them.”
“Are you assisting with the investigation? I remember how you pulled strings here when—”
“My father did, but I doubt he cares. Not many people do.”
“You do.”
To an extent that it involves Grace, and that’s because of Antaris.
Hiram stares at the blank wall. “I’ve done all I can. I’ve been compliant, answered their questions, but it’s best if I let the authorities do their jobs. Mine is to take care of Antaris.”
“You’re right.” John clears his throat. “Help him find his voice.”
“Right now, I’d take his trust over his voice,” Hiram admits quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s late. When he wakes up, I’ll have him—”
“No, no. You don’t have to.” John pauses. “His silence ... is hard.”
Hiram, who doesn’t even know what Antaris’s voice sounds like, understands more than he’ll ever admit. “You can write to him. I’ve started giving him notes each morning. He likes it.”
“Yeah? Okay, I’ll do that. Call me next month?”
“I will.” They’ve agreed to keep the communication open, no matter how difficult it is.
When Hiram ends the call, he lies back down on the floor beside Antaris’s bed. His indifference to the white walls and crown molding reshapes into distaste.
Sleep is impossible, but he tries.
Lunch on Saturday is yet another in a series of failures. Hiram’s still cleaning up when Peter arrives, the talisman letting him in without hesitation. Antaris greets Peter with a squint, but he’s mostly gotten used to his godfather’s presence. And his gifts.
Today, Peter brings a watercolor activity book that excites Antaris more than anything he’s received so far. Once the boy is settled and painting a picture of a cat—the animal matching his pendant—Peter joins Hiram at the table, where he’s sipping coffee because it’s too early for liquor.
“How did you know he likes painting?”
