Chapter 24: Track Nine

On Christmas morning the blue house on Alder Street smelled of cinnamon and burnt toast.

Beth had decided to help with the cooking.

"It's not burnt," she said, holding up a black triangle. "It's dark-roasted."

"It's charcoal," said Eli from the couch.

He was wearing a green sweater Beth had bought him, with the tag still hanging from the collar.

He had stayed in her spare room since the sentencing, and he had a job now at the hardware store on Main Street.

He had not chewed his thumbnail in two weeks.

The dog lay under the tree with a bow stuck to its head, and did not care.

I stood in the doorway of the front room with a mug of tea and watched my husband.

Ansel sat on the piano bench with our daughter in the crook of his arm.

Pip was almost three months old and nearly eight pounds.

She had a red velvet dress that was too big for her, and she was chewing her own fist.

He had been back at the hospital for six weeks, with a second surgeon in every room and a basket for his phone by the front door.

He came home at seven, every night.

When he could not, he texted me where he was.

He had not broken a rule yet.

I had not made it easy for him to, and I had not made it impossible.

I had added a sixth term last week.

It said: YOU PLAY THE PIANO FOR HER EVERY NIGHT.

He had read it, and nodded, and gone straight to the front room.

Now the Elora Mix played softly from the speaker on the shelf.

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