those joints. I’d watched Edward teach my daughter how to make one at my kitchen table.
Three weeks.
That’s what he’d been doing. Every afternoon after school, when he said he had “a project in the shop.” Every time he said he couldn’t eat lunch because he had to “finish something up.”
He’d been building this. For three weeks. Because he knew. Because he’d listened. Because the minute I told him what Max said about the mirror, he’d written it down in his little notebook.
Measure twice, cut once.
Max finally found his voice.
“This is—” he sputtered. “This is—who do you think you are? Coming to my wedding— You don’t even know me—”
“I know what you said to her,” said Edward. “I know what you said to your daughter at the rehearsal dinner last night about cookies.” He looked at Max steadily. “I think that’s enough to know.”
