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“What did he say?”

I can still hear it.

Eighteen years later.

Clear as if he’s standing in front of me.

“It should’ve been you.”

Clara’s face goes blank. “Jesus.”

“He was grieving.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“He’d just lost his kid.”

“So had your mother. So had you.”

“He wasn’t wrong.”

Her eyes sharpen.

I regret the words as soon as they’re out.

Too late.

“You think that?”

I look away.

“Ryder.”

“Still do some days.”

She stands. I brace myself. Here it comes.

It wasn’t your fault.

You were only a kid.

Your father didn’t mean it.

All the shit people say because silence makes them uncomfortable.

Instead, Clara walks toward me, then stops. “I don’t.”

That’s it.

I look up. “You don’t what?”

“I don’t think it should’ve been you.”

No pity. No speech. She just stands there in jeans and my spare riding jacket, looking at me like this is the simplest fucking thing in the world.

“You didn’t know him.”

“No.”