And the worst of it, the thing that made his stomach turn, was how well it had worked on all three of them at once, each kept quiet by a version of the same lie tailored to their particular love.
Chapter 4 — The Cold House
They insisted he stay for dinner, and dinner told him everything the letters had hidden.
There was a pot of thin soup, more water than anything, and four rolls gone stale enough to knock against the table.
On the counter sat a small amber bottle with a few of his father’s blood pressure pills rattling in the bottom.
The gas stove was cold and dark — turned off, he realized, to save on the bill — and his mother wore two heavy sweaters at her own table, in her own house, because they could not afford to heat it.