of a stack of undershirts like it had no more meaning than laundry.
For one second, rage came up so hot I could taste metal.
I pictured sweeping every perfume bottle off Patricia’s dresser.
I pictured glass breaking against the floor.
I pictured Ryan finally hearing a sound loud enough to understand.
I did not do it.
I stood there breathing carefully through the pain.
The hallway clock ticked.
The air conditioner rattled.
Duke’s tags jingled somewhere behind Cassie.
Ryan looked away first.
That was when I knew he understood exactly what he had done.
He just thought I was too weak to answer it.
So I turned around.
I walked slowly to the kitchen.
Every step hurt.
I sat in Patricia’s old chair at the table, opened the drawer where I kept house papers, and pulled out a yellow legal pad.
Ryan followed me.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
