"Someone says that last hit on West was 'vicious.'" He looked up, stricken. "Vicious, Emmy. That's the word they used."
"He caught the ball and ran for twelve yards. That's good."
"The celebration is premature. Adrenaline masks damage." His thumb swiped the screen. "He won't feel it until tomorrow. Or worse—in twenty years."
His gaze drifted toward the window. Emmy knew what he was looking at without having to check: the twelve-foot Home Depot skeleton in Sour Bill Henderson's yard, and the Miami Dolphins flag he'd hung from its bony hand this morning.
"He's done it again." Her father's voice went flat. "That man has no decency."
"Dad. It's October. The skeletonisseasonally appropriate right now."
"It'snevercoming down, Emmy. You know that. I know that. Three years of exposed evidence. Come November he'll slap a pilgrim hat on it. December, the Santa hat. It's apermanent installationand the HOA refuses to act." He turned back to the TV, jaw tight. "And now he's got it holding that flag while my sons play Miami. It's a deliberate provocation."
On screen, West lined up wide right. The ball snapped. He cut inside, hands up, and Grant's throw hit him perfectly in stride. Fourteen yards. First down.
"See?" Emmy pointed. "They're in sync. That's what you want."
"Someone on Reddit is saying Grant's shoulder rotation looked strained on the last drive." Her dad hadn't looked up from his phone. "They're concerned about his rotator cuff."
"Dad. We've talked about this. Please stop reading Reddit."
Her mother drifted through in her reading glasses and a floor-skimming caftan, an espresso martini in one hand and a pencil staked through her chignon. She paused, squinting at the television.
"Is that West? He looks fast."
"He is fast, Mom. That's his job."
"Mm. Did you know the Earl of Oxford was considered an exceptional athlete? Jousting, mostly. Very dangerous sport. The head injuries alone—well, it explains a lot of things, if youknow what to look for." She caught her husband's expression. "Though I'm sure football is much safer now. With the helmets."
"The helmets create a false sense of security," her dad said. "The brain still moves inside the skull. The helmets do nothing for rotational force."
Her mom patted his shoulder absently. "Come get me at halftime? They're supposed to be showing the trailer for that new murder film." She drifted away, already lost in whatever sixteenth-century conspiracy she was currently unraveling.
Her dad stared after her, and waited until the study door clicked shut before rounding on Emmy. "The dust in that room. I've suggested an air purifier. Multiple times. The respiratory implications?—"
"I know, Dad."
Miami scored on a short pass. Her father made a noise like he'd been personally wounded, then craned his neck toward the window.
"He'll be out there by halftime. Mark my words. Pretending to check his mailbox so he can gloat."
"Sour Bill does not plan his mail retrieval around football scores."
"You don't know that. You don't know what that man is capable of." He turned back to the TV, muttering. "Three years. Three years that skeleton has been up. Easter bunny ears. An Uncle Sam hat. Agraduation capin May, Emmy. It's never even been to college."
The game continued. Grant handed the ball off on a running play, step back, watch the play develop. Even at low volume she could read the satisfaction in his posture when his back broke through for six yards.
Harper
Is it weird that Ryan brought me coffee this morning? He just showed up at the bistro on his day off.
Emmy
That's sweet. Did you tell him about Cole?
A long pause. Then:
Harper
