Chapter 6: Pie

Gwen's parents lived in a brick house with a porch full of pumpkins and a front door that never stayed shut.

Her mother hugged me before I got my coat off.

"You're eating," she said. "That's not a question."

Fourteen people sat down at a table made of two tables.

Nobody mentioned Preston.

Nobody mentioned the party, either, though I could tell half of them had seen the video.

Kirk was on my left.

He passed me the potatoes, the rolls, and the gravy, and never asked if I was okay.

I was grateful for that.

The pen number was still on the back of my hand, half rubbed off by my sleeve.

Under the tablecloth I typed it into my phone and saved it as Trust.

Kirk saw the screen and said nothing until the gravy boat was empty.

"Who's that?" he asked, very low.

"Someone who says my wedding date belongs to a family trust."

"Are you calling her?"

"After pie."

He nodded, as if that were a plan.

When the turkey was done, Gwen's father put the pie plates on the counter and told everyone to help themselves.

I took the pumpkin and a knife to cut it.

My hand wasn't steady.

Kirk reached across and put his hand over mine on the handle.

His palm was warm and rough from washing between patients.

"Let me," he said.

"I can do it."

"I know you can."

He didn't take the knife.

He only held my hand there until it stopped shaking, and then we cut the pie together, and the first slice came out clean.

I didn't pull away, and he didn't either.

Then the front door banged open hard enough to hit the wall.