When she came back, she was holding her phone.
“I’m calling Megan.”
“Don’t,” Kyle said.
“She deserves to know you’re here. And why.”
He put his face in his hands.
And then — because the world has a sense of humor — the doorbell rang.
It was Brenda.
My neighbor.
The one who’d dragged me to the support group.
Before she retired, she’d spent twenty-eight years as a branch manager at the very bank my statements had come from.
“Nancy, I saw Kyle’s truck. I brought the pie. Is everything—”
She saw the envelopes on the table.
She saw the highlighter.
She saw my son with his face in his hands.
And she saw the watch.
Brenda had been reading tables like that since 1995.
“Oh, Kyle,” she said.
Just that.
“Oh, Kyle.”
Kyle stood up.
He pushed past her, out the front door, and I heard his truck start.
He left the watch on the table.
