Chapter 21: What It Cost

My father was buried at the top of a hill in Roseville, under an oak that dropped its acorns on the stone every October.

I had not been there in a year and a half.

Bernadette used to say the drive was too far for me to go alone, and the Corolla belonged to Stanton.

On Saturday morning I parked at the bottom of the hill and walked up with Dot on my arm.

Keir came a few steps behind, carrying a thermos.

The grass was wet and the sky was low.

The stone said WALTER J. TELLER and two dates, and under them, in smaller letters, MECHANIC. DAD.

Dot had paid for that part.

She stood in front of it with her purse and her good coat, and she said, "Well, Walt."

Then she was quiet, which I had never known her to be.

I knelt in the wet grass and brushed the acorns off the granite.

"Hi, Dad," I said.

My voice came out small.

I took the watch out of my coat pocket and set it on top of the stone.

"She had it the whole time. I've got it back."

The wind moved the oak.

"I found out where the money went," I said. "You'd have been so angry. You'd have said words I'm not allowed to repeat."

Behind me, Keir made a sound that was nearly a laugh.

"I got the house back. I got a bank statement that makes me want to throw up."

I pressed my palm flat on the cold stone.

"I don't have the two million. It's mostly gone, Dad. I'm not going to pretend it isn't."

I had said it out loud for the first time.

I had told myself for a week that it didn't matter, because the Orwells had lost more.