My glass stopped halfway to the table.
There it was.
The old knife.
He always knew where to place it.
I had not walked out of Dad’s funeral speech.
Dad was alive.
Mom’s funeral.
I had walked out because a phone in my pocket vibrated three times, stopped, then vibrated twice.
A code.
An extraction window.
I had left the church basement while my aunt was still crying over potato salad.
I had changed clothes in a gas station bathroom.
I had flown out under a name that did not exist.
I had missed the burial.
For nine years, Mason believed I left because I couldn’t handle grief.
I let him believe that because the truth would have put him in danger.
He never forgave me.
I never defended myself.
That was our whole relationship.
His accusation.
My silence.
His wound.
My classified reason.
I set the glass down.
