Outside, the wind tugged at Owen’s coat while he reached for every passing bus.

On the train I opened the folder once, read the sentence about the withdrawn allegations, and closed it.

My father had not been perfect.

But he had been right to ask where the money went.

I wanted to remember both truths.

That weekend Helen joined us at Walter’s grave.

She stood beside me for a long time before placing a small bunch of yellow flowers near the stone.

I expected some speech about what he had done to her.