I returned to my book until another hour passed and the sun slipped behind the Collegiates, sending shadows across the pages.

His eyes stayed on me, just as they had been for the majority of the time, as I packed up my chair and put it into the Jeep.

“I’ll be back tomorrow and the day after that and so forth,” I called up to where he watched at the window. “You are the reason I’m here, and I have nothing better to do.”

The curtain closed, and I almost laughed at the insults he was no doubt muttering in the house.

“As long as he doesn’t get the shotgun,” I mumbled.

…

I began my reading session earlier the next day, not even bothering to knock on the door before setting up in the driveway in front of Dad’s house.

The day after, I did the same.

By Wednesday, I thought about bringing a more comfortable chair.

An hour after I opened my book, Dad stood on the front porch, arms folded in front of his chest as he watched me. It was an odd thing, seeing Dad, not knowing who he would really be today.

I put my book in my lap as he came down the steps, his footsteps heavy on the creaking wood.

“You came to help.” Condescension clung to every word.

“I came because you asked me to.”

His eyes narrowed. “What exactly did I ask you to help with?”

He’s probably not even lucid in that message. For the first time, I wondered if Xander was right.

“Death.”

Shock flashed across his features, and I cursed inwardly.

“Dorothy made lunch.” With those words, he walked back to the house.

“Awesome,” I muttered, opening the book again.

“If you’re hungry, get in here. She’s too old to be hauling your food outside,” he called back from the porch.

My eyes shot to his, just to make sure he was actually talking to me.

“I’m not waiting all day,” he said, answering my silent question, holding the door.

I lurched to my feet, abandoning the paperback on the canvas chair, and followed him inside.

“Take off your damned shoes,” he ordered, and I did just that before joining him in the kitchen, where Dorothy sat at the table with lunch, watching us like hawks.

“Rabbit food,” Dad groaned as he sat in front of his salad.

“It’s good for you,” Dorothy argued.

“Thank you,” I told her before digging into the grilled chicken that topped the greens.

“What’s your proof?” Dad asked. “You said you had proof.”

Guess we weren’t beating around the bush.

Still chewing, I put my phone on the table and cued up the voicemail. Then I watched him as it played. As usual, he gave nothing away. Heaven forbid he let anyone know how he was feeling.

The message ended, and I put my phone back in my pocket.