Contents (85)
- Contents
- Part I
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Part II
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Part III
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- One
- Two
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
“Listen to me,” my father tells him, still squeezing Max’s bony hand. “A handshake isn’t a sign of friendship. It’s an assessment. You versus the other guy. Who would win in a fight? That’s what I want you to think about. You need to show the other guy that if you absolutely had to, you could tear his throat out. Now, squeeze like you mean it, son.”
“Oh, for chrissakes, Dad.”
Max grunts more and his eyes narrow; his intensity as he squeezes suggests he’s actually trying to inflict pain. Only then does my father allow a rare smile. “There you go,” he says. “That’s more like it. Now you’ve got me on the defensive. Good job.”
Max releases but his defiant expression remains. I feel years of my parenting efforts crumbling away.
“That’s not the kind of lesson he needs in his life right now,” I say. “Or maybe ever.”
My father puts his hands up. “Fine, by all means.” He’s poised to say something else, perhaps one of the quips he had loaded at all times, ready to fire. Then he appears to think better of it, saying, “You’re right. You’re right. You’ve both been through a lot. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He stands aside and ushers us inside.
1734 Rum Hill Road.
There’s a faint current of electricity rippling through me as I enter, bringing goose bumps to my arms. Like walking through a collection of ghosts who desperately try to drive me away.
I look down at my son. If he senses a change in the atmosphere, I don’t see it on his face. Why should he? This house doesn’t hold the memories for him that it does for me. Max has no idea what happened here, long before he was born.
And now we’re here to live. For a while, anyway.
My father lured me back to Bury after Riley’s death a month ago, and against all my urges, I had to concede I couldn’t do things on my own. Riley and I had always lived independently of my father’s wealth, but really, it was hardly living. My husband’s entrepreneurial ventures were always doomed to fail, and we’d saved up just enough cash to hold us over until he tried something new. As for me, my income from writing novels is just past the “hobby” threshold as defined by the IRS. I was hoping my third book would be my breakout, but it just hasn’t happened.
Yet my father’s money wasn’t the only motivation for coming home. I couldn’t stay in Milwaukee. Not in that apartment where the coroner whisked away Riley’s body, which was cool to the touch when I placed a hand on his bare shoulder. I didn’t even want to remain in the city. Too many eyes, watching. Too many shadows, long and reaching. So I left the ghosts there to come face the ones here.
See, the thing is, I need to be here. I need to face the things I ran from a long time ago. I have this idea of finding peace, but could be such a thing doesn’t exist.