Chapter 6: Flowers and a Pen

"New rule," I told Jerome that night, standing in my father's kitchen. "Anyone who comes through that door says his full name first. Including you."

He had come back at six with a bag of groceries and fixed the hinge on the garage door without being asked.

"Jerome Werner," he said, and held up the bag. "I brought eggs."

"Thank you."

"And you say yours."

"Maisie Corrigan."

"Good." He almost smiled. "No names that aren't ours."

It was the first thing in three years that I had agreed to with a clear head.

The doorbell rang at eight.

I looked through the window.

Gregory stood on the porch with an armful of white peonies, a paper bag from Delaney's Bakery, and a face that had been crying for hours.

I nodded at Jerome. He stepped back into the dark of the hall.

I turned on my phone's recorder and put it in the pocket of my cardigan.

Then I opened the door a hand's width.

"Say your full name," I said.

He blinked. "Maisie."

"Say it."

"Gregory Werner." He swallowed. "I'm Gregory Werner. I'm so sorry."

"Come in."

He set the peonies on the table. They were the kind I liked, the ones from the farmers' market on the east side.

He opened the paper bag.

"Almond croissants. The ones from Delaney's that you can't get after eight. I drove across town."

I hadn't eaten since the funeral.

My stomach turned over, and I hated that it did.

"I know I'm the last person you want to see," he said. "I'm not going to defend myself. I want you to hear me."

"I'm listening."

He sat down across from me and put his hands flat on the table.