Ever since I can remember, my mother has taken a junior faculty member under her wing, turning our quiet dinner table into a train stop for visiting assistant professors, graduate students, lecturers, and adjuncts. All staring up to my mother with that same grateful smile, talking about unfair course loads and the job market. Looking around our house, thinking that one day, if they play their cards right, they might find some kind of stability. My mother never has the heart to tell them it doesn’t work like that anymore. And the next holiday, there’s a new face at the table, the last one back to Germany or their parents’ house or furiously writing op-eds for whoever will publish them.

At least with Verena here, she and my mother will do the talking. I feign the need to unpack and lie down, but my mind is racing. This Thanksgiving, the Kemp family will have an empty seat at the table. His murderer is out there somewhere eating mashed potatoes and green bean casserole thinking he’s gotten away with it. Teddy will be at his mother’s house laughing with his sisters at the long picnic table set up in the backyard. Truman will be stretched out on the couch watching football while the boys roughhouse on the floor, Nancy, his wife, cooks, and Alice sneaks him extra slices of pie. And I’m here, with no idea what’s going on. No idea if after what’s happened, Truman will feel sorry for me and let me back on the case or feel sorry for me and insist I take more time off.

I collapse on my childhood bed and check my phone for the twentieth time. But there’s nothing. No updates, check-ins, or other confirmations of existence from Teddy or Truman.

Verena—a tall woman about my age with dark hair and amber-colored eyes—arrives at a quarter to five wearing a burgundy A-line skirt and a pair of no-nonsense tennis shoes. She carries a bottle of wine in one hand and two casserole dishes in the other, bringing with her the scent of melted cheese and caramelized onions.

My father materializes from the kitchen with an apron tied around his waist, brandishing a tofu dish and a turkey to Verena’s complimentary applause. He beams at her and glances at me. My smile’s too late or too much of a grimace. I see it in the hesitation of his step before he reaches the table.

“So, Verena,” my father asks as he sits across from my mother, “how are you liking Athens?”

“Oh.” A grateful smile, the hint of a German accent. “It’s great. For a small American city, there’s a lot to do. Restaurants and music.”

“Do you miss Bamberg?”