Chapter 12: The Witness

"Show me," I said.

Marisol did not ask what I meant.

She took her phone out of her coat pocket with a hand that would not hold still.

She opened a folder she had named Taxes.

It held a single photo.

I took the phone and held it under the stairwell bulb.

It was the steps of a county courthouse on a bright spring day.

Preston stood on the left in a gray suit, grinning, with his tie crooked.

Marisol stood beside him in a short white dress and a paper flower, with her chin up and her eyes shining.

On the right, one hand on Marisol's shoulder and the other holding a pen, stood my father.

He wore his navy suit and his warm baritone smile, and he was looking straight at the camera.

The date on the photo was twenty-six months old.

I looked at it for a long time.

"He signed," Marisol said. "Someone has to stand up as a witness."

"Preston asked him?"

"Your father said it would be an honor."

"My father."

"He brought the pen himself."

I made a sound I did not recognize.

It was not a laugh.

"He knew," I said. "He knew before I ever met Preston."

"Preston met you through him."

"At the Christmas dinner. He sat me next to him."

I could hear my father saying it.

"He said, this is the best young man I've got, Ingrid. You'll like him."

"I know."

"He said it twice."

I handed her phone back before I dropped it.

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