It had kept me apologizing, and paying, and coming back, for thirty-six years.

It did not work that afternoon.

Something in me had gone quiet and clear and immovable, standing in that room beside his urn.

“You want to talk about exaggeration?” I said, and I slid one more document across the table to her.

“Then let’s talk about this.” It was the toxicology report.

“The bottle that was supposed to hold Raymond’s liquid morphine was tested in a laboratory.