Chapter 11: Tuesday

On Tuesday at nine at night, I parked in front of Stacy's gray farmhouse off Africa Road.

Cory's black Tahoe was in her driveway.

Not on the street. In the driveway, nosed in close to the garage, the way you park at your own house.

Jen was in my passenger seat in her salon smock with a bag of gas-station jerky.

"I'm coming in," she said.

"You're staying in the car."

"Ren."

"If I'm not out in ten minutes, come in swinging."

"Swinging what?"

I handed her my FAMILY FIRST mug from the cup holder.

She weighed it in her hand and nodded, satisfied.

I walked up the porch steps past the swing nobody sat in.

There was a pink and blue wreath on the door I didn't remember from two weeks ago.

I rang the bell.

Footsteps, and the door opened, and it was Callen.

He was in pajama pants and a Wildcats T-shirt, barefoot, holding a bowl of cereal.

His mouth fell open.

"Ren?"

"Hi, bud. Is your dad here?"

He looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen.

Then back at me.

He didn't say yes. He didn't have to.

He stepped back and let me in.

The house smelled like garlic bread.

The studio living room was dark, the ring lights off, the white couch looking gray.

The kitchen was bright.

Cory was at the kitchen table in jeans and a T-shirt, with his shoes off and his socked feet up on the chair across from him.

There was a glass of red wine in front of him, half gone.

There was a plate with a crust of garlic bread on it.

Stacy was at the stove in leggings and one of Cory's old Ohio State sweatshirts, stirring something.

She had a glass too.

Sparkling water, with a lime.

They both turned when I came in.

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