A year passed in the blink of an eye. Palmer's Kitchen grew busier with every passing month, and my father seemed lighter these days, the worry lines on his face finally beginning to fade.
The next time I heard news about Derek was on an early autumn evening. I closed the restaurant ahead of schedule, planning to go home and make my father birthday pasta. On the way back, I stopped by an imported grocery store to pick up a bag of gluten-free flour.
Just as I stepped outside, a shrill, familiar scream shattered the quiet dusk. I followed the sound instinctively. Under a flickering streetlight, a woman clung desperately to a man's arm, sobbing so hard she could barely stand.
It was Suki. Prison had worn her down badly. Her face looked gaunt beneath layers of heavy makeup, now streaked and
