Chapter 17: The Stool

Keir's POV

The porch light on Fairmont was off, so I knocked.

Bernadette opened the door herself, in her cardigan, with her reading glasses pushed up into her silver hair.

The hall behind her was dark, and the family photographs on the wall were all gone.

"You came," she said. "Good. Come into the kitchen."

I followed her down the hall.

Eleven years ago she had stood in this doorway and told me nobody had ever wanted me.

The kitchen had one lamp on, and a pot of tea on the table with two cups.

She poured both.

"I won't be drinking that," I said.

"As you like." She sat. "I'll be plain, because you were always the plain one."

She looked around the kitchen.

"Your father's house is empty. Stanton is gone. Brittany has lost her mind."

"And you're alone."

"I'm tired." She folded her hands. "I'm prepared to put this house in your name."

I waited for the rest of it.

"The deed. Clean, today. It was your father's before it was mine. He would have wanted you to have it."

"In exchange for what?"

"For taking her away from here," she said. "Alaska, anywhere."

She sipped her tea.

"Leave this city with that girl and stop this. Let the bank sort out the rest quietly."

I looked at the lamp for a moment.

"She isn't a thing I can take anywhere," I said.

"You're a smart man. Think. She's married to my son. She's grieving, and in a month she'll be sorry."

Bernadette leaned in.

"They always go back. You did. You came to my door tonight."

"I came because you called me."

"Everyone who leaves comes back to this kitchen, Keir. Your father did, after your mother. Stanton will. She will."

Her voice stayed soft.

"And you'll be sitting in Alaska by yourself, remembering what I told you."

My hands had closed on my knees.

It wasn't the offer. I had expected the offer.