I came back to Bellwether in January to pick up the last of my father's things.
The box was smaller than I expected. It held a set of wood chisels, a red-handled screwdriver, and the notebook where my father had written measurements for projects he'd never finished. I had left it under the stairs because I hadn't been ready to carry it away.
Jonah was there when I arrived. He was cleaning the front windows.
"I didn't know you were coming," he said.
"I texted your mother."
"She didn't tell me."
"I didn't ask her to."
He nodded and set down the cloth. "Do you want help with the box?"
"No, I can manage it."
I carried it outside and loaded it into my trunk. When I came back for my gloves, Jonah was waiting by the door.
"I've been thinking about what you said in October," he said.
"W
