“Odile had been low for a long time.

The kindest thing now is to protect her name and lay her to rest quickly.”

“Protect her name from what?” I said.

Nobody answered me.

And in a house full of my grieving family, that silence was the first thing all day that felt honest — because it was the first thing that felt like it was hiding.

Chapter 3 — My Father’s Fist

My father sat in his wheelchair near the foot of the stairs.

A stroke, two years back, had taken most of the movement on his right side and nearly all of his speech, but it had not touched his mind — I knew that better than anyone in that room, because I was the one who still talked to him like the sharp man he was.

And the moment he saw me, my father, Elliot, began to slam his good left fist down onto the armrest of his chair.

Again.