My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“My registration?” I asked.
“I saw your last name,” he said, his rumble softening. “I knew the address on Pine Lane because I spent three years trying to get the police to show me the diagrams from that night.”
My thumb went to my silver ring, twisting it until the skin pinched. “You knew who my mother was before we even left the city.”
“I had to see if she still told the same lie after all these years,” Christopher said.
The dry wind rattles the bare oak branches above the garden path.
The dry wind rattles the bare oak branches above the garden path.
The sound followed us as we walked back toward the rear porch, our shoes crunching on the dry leaves that had drifted against the stone foundation of the house. We entered through the kitchen, where the air was thick with the lingering heat of the oven and the faint, bitter smell of charred coffee. The yellow light from the hallway was bright and cold, casting long shadows across the clean linoleum floor.
