Page 24

Don looks down at the bar.

“Call Linda,” he says. “Not right this second, but call her before calling is too big.”

“You don’t know what that could cost me.”

“No,” he says. “But I know what not calling will.”

“That’s vague enough to sound wise.”

“I stole it from a therapist I stopped seeing when she suggested I quit drinking.”

I smile again.

Don leans closer, his voice lowering. “Paul. You don’t have to hand anyone a match. But you also don’t get to pretend there isn’t a room full of gas.”

I hate that too. Life is giving me a lot of things to hate right now.

Don watches me. I nod once, though I haven’t decided.

Chapter four

The Envelope

Clint

My mom’s house has never looked like a place where secrets live. That’s probably how it got away with it.

It’s a narrow brick ranch off a side street in the South End, with white shutters, a porch swing nobody swings on, and two concrete geese by the front steps dressed for whatever holiday is nearest. Right now, they’re wearing tiny Derby hats nearly a month after the race, because Mom loves horses.

I park at the curb behind her blue Corolla and sit there with the engine running.

The envelope is on the passenger seat. Inside, there’s a letter from a man named Henry Benton. Renny, apparently, to those who actually knew him.

A dead man.

Maybe my father.

I shut off the engine. For a second, the car goes too quiet. No fan. No music. Just the ticking of the engine cooling. I pick up the envelope and get out.

Mom opens the door before I knock. She always does that when she knows I’m coming. It used to freak Becca out.

“She’s like a cat,” Becca said once. “One that can sense your credit score.”

Mom stands behind the storm door in jeans and a pale yellow t-shirt, her hair clipped back, no makeup except lipstick. She looks like she’s been waiting longer than she wanted to.

“You’re late,” she says.

“By five minutes.”

“Seven.”

“Were you timing me?”

“Everyone has clocks.”

She pushes the storm door open.

I step inside, and the house smells like furniture polish and coffee. It always smells like that. The furniture is the same too. Brown couch. Matching recliner. Glass-front cabinet full of dishes nobody uses. A place so neat it makes sitting down feel like a small act of violence.