“I drove by because I was worried about you.”
“You were worried?”
“Emily, don’t start.”
I almost laughed.
He had followed me to a cemetery in the middle of the night, and he still believed irritation could control the conversation.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.
“I drove around.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere.”
His breathing changed slightly.
“Did your dad ever give you anything before he died?”
There it was.
I let silence stretch.
“Like what?”
“Documents.
Keys.
Anything about his properties.”
I looked at the old brass key ring hanging beside the refrigerator.
“No.”
Ryan exhaled.
“Okay.
Good.”
Good.
He corrected himself immediately.
“I mean, good that you don’t have to deal with that right now.”
Two hours later he arrived at the house.
He wore yesterday’s shirt.
He smelled freshly showered, but not with our soap.
He tried to hug me.
I stepped aside.
His face hardened.
“So we’re doing this now?”
“You left my father’s funeral for Vanessa.”
For the first time, hearing her name rattled him.
“Who told you that?”
“It matters?”
“She’s a friend.”
“You were at a motel.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he changed tactics.
“You’re grieving.
You’re connecting things that aren’t connected.”
I heard my father’s voice in my head.
If something ever feels off, promise me you won’t ignore it just because you want peace.
I did not argue.
That frightened Ryan more than shouting would have.
He walked through the house pretending to straighten things.
His eyes moved across Dad’s desk, filing cabinet, bookcase.
Looking.
When he entered the study, I followed him.
“What are you searching for?”
“Nothing.”
He opened a drawer.
“You don’t look like you’re searching for nothing.”
He slammed it shut.
“Your father hated me.”
