Chapter 11: Her Father

We didn't talk in the car.

We didn't talk on the stairs.

I locked the townhouse door and turned around, and Suzette was standing in the hall with her coat still on and her hands twisted together.

"Say it," I said.

"My father kept books for your grandfather."

I had known it was coming, and it still landed.

"For how long?"

"Nine years.

"He did the accounts for the docks and the trucking routes.

"He came home smelling of cigars and told me not to ask about work."

"And you never told me."

"I didn't know how."

"We've been together six months."

"I know."

She took off her coat and dropped it on the floor.

"I was sixteen when the police came to the door.

"A car went off the Roosevelt Boulevard in the rain with him in it.

"They said he was drunk. He never drank."

"You think my grandfather did it."

She was quiet.

"I don't know what I think. When you came home in September and said your name was Wetherill, I almost threw up in a sink."

"You said it was the flu."

"I was lying."

"Why didn't you tell me then?"

"Because I was scared you'd look at me the way you're looking at me now."

I took a breath.

"And the key?"

"It was his. He wore it every day. I wear it for him."

She said it simply, and I believed her.

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