Page 52

“She still does, so I’ve started buying my own.” Birdie opens the box and offers him one on a napkin. “We’re removing her power.”

Dad listens while Birdie tells him about a walnut dresser, and his ability to understand her problem makes me forget for one precious minute that he called her by Mom’s name. Then he asks, “Where’s Connor?”

I lower the paper cup to the table before answering. “He’s working today,” I say. “The bank needed him.”

Dad frowns toward the windows. “On Sunday?”

“They’re reviewing business accounts before Monday. He said he’ll visit as soon as he can.”

Disappointment lowers Dad’s mouth. “He works too much.”

“I tell him that all the time.” I keep my voice light, but I feel guilty for every word. “He never listens to me.”

“Neither of you listens.” Dad points the mechanical pencil at me now, and a trace of his old humor warms his face. “You ask questions until everyone forgets what they were refusing to tell you, and Connor waits until he has enough numbers to prove them wrong.”

My eyes burn, so I look down at the three empty squares near the bottom of his puzzle. Birdie touches my wrist while Dad studies me and asks, “Are you sleeping?”

“Not very well.” I could blame the drive or the bookstore, but lying about Connor has used most of what I can manage. “I’ve been worried about him.”

“Why?” His posture changes as concern clears some of the haze from his eyes. “Did Connor get into trouble?”

I force a fragile smile. “No, Dad. He has a complicated review at work, and he hasn’t been answering his phone much.”

“Numbers.” Dad lowers the pencil and looks toward the garden without seeing it. “He said there were numbers that didn’t belong.”

Birdie grows still beside him. My heartbeat quickens, but I keep my voice calm as I ask, “When did he say that?”

Dad taps the pencil against the paper. “Tuesday.”

“You saw Connor on Tuesday?” I ask, leaning closer without reaching for him.

His eyes move over my face as he tries to hold on to the memory. “We had lunch. Meatloaf, but the potatoes were cold.”

Birdie and I exchange a glance. Meatloaf is served on Sundays at Oak Grove, which means he must be remembering Connor’s visit last weekend.

“Did he bring the chessboard?” I ask.

Dad nods. “He did, but he kept looking at his telephone. I told him it was rude.”

The details fit our visit last Sunday, even if Dad has confused the day. I place my cup on the table before my shaking hand spills it.

“What did Connor tell you about the numbers?”

“They repeated.” Dad draws a small column along the edge of the puzzle and writes 18, 36, and 18 again. His hand remains precise even when his mind can’t hold the date. “Different names, same numbers. That isn’t random if it happens too often.”

“Did he mention Dragorin Vineyards?” Birdie asks, her voice low.

Dad’s brow creases. “Wine?”

“He may have mentioned invoices from a winery,” I explain. “Or companies that borrowed money.”

“He couldn’t show me because the files were private. I taught him ethics, you know.”

“You did,” I assure him. “Did he tell you what he planned to do?”

Dad rubs his thumb over his wedding band. “Find the person who approved them. He said a pattern can hide inside a large enough group because people stop looking at each number.” His eyes meet mine with sudden clarity. “Connor never stops looking.”

The lucid words break through every defense I carried inside. Connor came here because Dad would understand the pattern, even if he couldn’t retain the conversation.