Chapter 13: Wrong Man

Knox's POV

I drove her to the lake house because it was the one place Preston did not know I owned.

My family had kept the cabin for forty years.

Lydia said nothing for the first twenty miles, and neither did I.

For six months I had hated a woman who was lying in a hospital bed with a broken spine.

I had stood at my own elevator and told her she killed my brother.

I had handed her the police report and watched her face while she read it, and I had wanted it to hurt.

Now she sat in my passenger seat with her hands in her lap, looking at the road.

"You can say it," she said.

"I'm sorry."

"Not tonight. I can't use it tonight."

I nodded and kept driving.

The cabin had a ramp up to the porch.

Teddy built it the summer our grandmother stopped being able to manage the steps.

Lydia rolled up it, and halfway she stopped and laid her palm flat on the rail.

"Who built this?"

"My brother."

She did not ask anything else.

I heated a can of soup, because it was all the kitchen had.

She ate half of it at the table and pushed the bowl toward me.

"Eat," she said. "You look worse than I do."

I ate. It was salty and I tasted none of it.

I put her in the bedroom with the good mattress and took the couch.

I could not lie down.

I stood in the hall instead, in front of the hook by the door.

Teddy's denim jacket still hung there, exactly where he had left it on his last weekend.

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