It Was My Turn to Take the Case

It belongs to the family line now — exactly the way you wanted.”

Dad looked out over the fields, his eyes bright, a single tear cutting a path down the weathered lines of his cheek. He reached over and squeezed my hand with a quiet, surprising strength.

“Thank you, Clara,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I thought I was going to die in that basement, daughter.”

I leaned over and kissed his forehead, and caught the familiar scent of cedar and old pipe tobacco that had defined my whole childhood.

“You spent twenty-five years protecting me, Dad,” I said, watching the sun climb over the fields. “It was just my turn to take the case.”

The wind moved through the oaks around the old house and carried off the last of the greed and the betrayal and the violence. The farmhouse was quiet, the ground under us was solid, and for the first time in a long while, the case was closed.

THE END.