He told the couple it was his first time in Bury, and he was visiting some family friends. He didn’t have his badge, gun, or anything else that might indicate he was PD. Neither his own nor Bury’s police department knew he was here. As far as his sergeant was concerned, Colin was on leave until he could figure out how to put his life back together.

Is that what I’m doing here? he thought. Putting my life back together?

He didn’t have an answer for that. He had nothing. No plan, no idea of his next move. No sense of a way to heal. All Colin had was a profound urge to know the truth about the Yates family, and he thought the best way to start that was by looking Rose Yates in the eyes again, this time with his own fresh perspective on death and suffering. Colin didn’t know what came after that, but that would be a start. An expensive trip for a solitary, fleeting moment, but everything began somewhere.

Eight o’clock, and after a pot-roast dinner that was surely better than his diminished appetite allowed for, Colin found himself sitting in the octagonal living room with his hosts. He was the only guest that night, another couple having canceled their plans due to the storm.

Colin sipped a glass of port, a drink he’d never tasted before. It was sickly sweet. He managed a weak smile and toasted his new friends, thanking them for their hospitality. One last sip, then Colin knew he’d hit his wall. Sleep was coming at last, whether he was ready for it or not. Beautiful sleep.

He said good night to Franklin and Keith, then lumbered to his room on the second floor. Inside, he collapsed onto a puffy queen-size bed that had two quilt blankets and at least a half-dozen pillows. After a few seconds of stillness, he summoned enough energy to take off his clothes, get under the covers, and plug in his phone.

The last thing he did was set his alarm. Eight in the morning. Twelve hours away. Colin had no idea of what he didn’t want to be late for, but something was going to happen tomorrow.

It just had to.

Fifty-Five

7:55 p.m.

I walk into the foyer and Cora’s standing there, snow melting on the arms of her black fleece jacket. She’s disheveled, a look she doesn’t wear often.

“Where’s Dad?” she says.

“Here,” he says, appearing from the hallway. His jacket is off, hands in pockets. No drinks anywhere to be seen.

She looks to him. “I don’t like being summoned, especially when I have to drive in this shit. I nearly lost control of the car.”

“Calm down,” my father says. “You made it, didn’t you?”

“Barely.”

I’m hardly able to process it was just this morning I asked my father if he molested her. I scan back and forth between the two of them, searching for some kind of link, some kind of indication of damage. How do you find evidence of more damage in things long broken?