Chapter 10: The Yard
By the time the grass grew over the dents left by party tables, the investigation had settled into court dates and quieter nights.
Teresa lived elsewhere under other roofs and other stories. I did not chase the stories. Amy blocked numbers with a steadiness I admired. Frederick took first steps toward the same back door I had used to enter the kitchen that Friday, and Amy laughed instead of flinching.
I stood in the yard at dusk and remembered tequila, seafood, my mother’s dress, the folder under Mason’s jacket. Then I remembered Amy’s hand in mine as we left, Frederick’s glassy eyes, the ambulance lights painting the siding.
I had come home early with a cake.
I had found a regime built on my paycheck and my absence.
I called 911, took back a deed, and learned to listen when my wife said she was fine—
May you like
and to check
anyway,
in a house
where the rules
were finally
written
by the people
who lived
there.
