Epilogue
Andrew Whittaker still hated mornings. Maybe hated was too strong a word, but he still moaned and groaned when he slapped the beeping alarm clock, his wedding ring clanking against the buttons when he slapped the thing off. At least it was summer, the sun up earlier, the days brighter and warmer even if the Portland mist still stubbornly drizzled whenever it pleased.
Mark opened the curtains of their new bedroom, bright and airy, and he looked out into their woodland West Hills neighborhood and sighed. It was a beautiful house, the house of my dreams, Mark had told Andrew when they went to look at it. So Andrew had to buy it for him. Anything for my beautiful, golden-eyed boy, Andrew thought. The house was a traditional-style cedar, painted gray with white trim and a red door th
