“Julian, this is too much.”

“I know.” I looked toward Arthur’s kitchen window, dark beyond our fence.

“He should have told me.”

At the bottom of his letter, below his signature, was one more sentence: Before you decide what to do with any of it, read the journal.

There are things I could only say on paper.

PART 3

I didn’t sleep that night.

The suitcase stayed on our kitchen table, closed and locked, while every creak of the house sounded like an accusation.