It was an ugly, broken sound.
“I didn’t want this,” he said.
Dad looked down at him.
“You wanted the money.”
Harold covered his face.
Above us, Vanessa screamed.
“No!”
The officers moved toward the stairs.
Grant’s voice followed hers.
“You can’t take us!”
Detective Alvarez looked at Dad.
“Are you Harold Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“And are Vanessa and Grant Mercer inside the house?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go upstairs.”
Dad looked at me before climbing.
His hand found mine.
The house was chaos.
Boxes covered the hallway. A desk drawer hung open. Family photographs had been removed from the walls and stacked beside the front door.
Vanessa stood in the living room with her coat still on.
Grant was beside the fireplace, gripping a folder.
When he saw Dad, the color left his face.
Vanessa whispered his name.
Dad stopped three feet from her.
She looked at his robe, his slippers, and the faint crease from his pillow still visible on one side of his face.
“You’re alive,” she said.
“You already knew that.”
“I didn’t.”
“You heard me on the phone.”
