"Knew each otherhow?What kind of favor?" I'm halfway across the table now, knees pressed against his, every cell of my body straining forward. "What do you owe him? What does any of this have to do with—" and my eyes go, traitorously, to the shelf, where the photograph from his nightstand now sits propped against a can of beans. "—with the woman in the photograph?"
Afon stands.
As soon as he does, I'm sure I've blown it again. He's going to storm out into the dark the way he did the night I said her name.
But he doesn't do that. He crosses to the shelf, and with one scarred finger, he nudges the photograph a half inch to the left, squaring it up.
"The how of your father and me," he says to the wall, "is bound up with her. And that's not tonight's story."
Later, I lie in the narrow bed on my side of where the Berlin Wall used to be, and I recalibrate.
Thirty years of my father shuffle and re-deal themselves behind my eyes. The cufflinks. The crepes. The late nights that made my mother scream in her sleep.
Good men keep secrets,Afon told me over that first cup of coffee, a hundred years ago.And his are going to break your heart.
I'd thought I was ready. I'd said,I'm a big girl. I can take it,with the confidence of a woman who'd never heard the name Viktor Reznik.
The swallow burns behind my eyelids. Mid-dive. Key in its beak. A bird that crosses the mountains and always finds its way home.
A foot away, close enough to touch, the man holding the rest of the truth breathes slow and even. I'm a lawyer. I came up this mountain for discovery, for the full file, for one hundred percent of a story, and I am well-versed in all the ways to extract stories from even the most unwilling of storytellers.
But lying here in the dark, listening to him breathe, I'm no longer sure I want to leave with the truth…
… so much as I want to stay for the man keeping it.
Wolf sighs against my feet.
"Oh, shut up," I whisper at him with a scowl. "I already know."
17
CAROLINE
I wake up wearing Afon's flannel shirt. It still dwarfs me in every way, but at this point, my own clothes are crusty enough that they could walk to the laundromat by themselves, so at least I don't have to smell myself when I have this woodsmoke-and-cologne-scented tunic layered on top of everything.
The bed is empty on his side. That doesn't surprise me—some people are snoozers, and some people areEveryone you know and love will die horribly, Final Destination style, if you don't get out of bed the second you regain consciousness every day.I'm the former; Afon is, like, the mayor of the latter.
But this time, he hasn't gone far. I can hear him moving around the hut, the scrape of the cast-iron pan, the metallic complaint of the stove door, and Wolf's toenails clicking after him like a furry shadow with separation anxiety.
I sit up. My ankle gives a perfunctory throb, more out of habit than conviction. When I pat my hair, it feels like it's made out of concrete. The concept of "shampoo" is just like the memory of a dream I once had.
"Morning," I mumble.
Afon glances over from the stove. His eyes glass over when they see me in his shirt. Then he grunts and turns away.
"There's coffee," he says. "I'll warn you: It's bad."
"You undersell everything. The cabin was 'just a building.' The bullet wound was 'a graze.' I bet the coffee is delicious."
I pour myself a cup and… Yep, it's bad. Awful, really. I've never wanted a matcha latte more.
"Delicious," I declare, and drink the whole thing.
By midmorning I have appointed myself sous-chef, a position that exists in this kitchen like how the position of Lieutenant Governor exists in most states: ceremonially, and against the wishes of the administration.
"You're in my light," Afon grumbles.
"Tough titty; there's nowhere else for me to go." I'm perched at the table with his folding knife and a chunk of venison he has, after extensive negotiation, permitted me to cube. My knife skills need work, though. The venison cubes are more like mushy, uneven little blobs. "Also, I have notes on the menu."
