Right where he left them, I think as I pull away the old panel of floorboards in the kitchen beside the fridge, exposing the crate of firearms. It must have been there for at least sixteen years now, and as I lift it out of the compartment, I find myself doing something I can’t remember doing more than once or twice in my life: thanking my father.
I hear Daisy’s footsteps behind me about to enter the room and call out to her.
“Don’t come in here, baby.” I don’t want her to see this—these instruments of violence and death. She’s already experienced enough hardship in her life; she doesn’t need to be reminded of what’s going to occur today. Protecting her doesn’t just mean keeping her physically safe. It also means making sure she is no longer tormented by the life she’s been forced to lea
