She is in the kitchen at 9pm when I come downstairs.
Not eating, not doing anything with the kitchen. Just sitting at the table with her hands flat on the surface and the overhead light on and the determined expression of someone who has made a difficult decision and is sitting with it. I know that expression. I’ve been wearing a version of it for a month.
I sit across from her.
She looks at her hands. Then at me.
“Your father,” she says. “I need to tell you about your father.”
I wait.
She takes a breath and lets it out.
“It wasn’t a car accident.”
“I know.”
She looks at me. “You know?”
“I found his research notes. I found what he was building a case for. A man building that kind of case doesn’t just die in an accident.”
She puts her face in her hands for a moment. When she take
