The request sat between us on the worn table, heavier than the keys.

If I signed a statement, the thin wall I had built between myself and my family over twelve years would crumble.

“Let me make some tea,” I said, rising from the chair.

Sloan followed me into the small kitchen, leaving Harris at the table with his notes.

I filled the kettle at the sink, the cold water splashing against the stainless steel basin.

We stood together by the stove, watching the blue ring of fire heat the bottom of the copper kettle.