“I saw the court news on the evening broadcast,” Raymond said, stopping at the bottom step.

“Come inside, Uncle Raymond,” I said.

“I just put the kettle on.”

He stepped into the kitchen and sat at the Formica table where Dad used to read the morning paper.

He rubbed his thumb over the scarred knuckles of his left hand, staring down at his work boots.

“I owe you an apology, Elena,” he said, his voice rough and low.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I said.