My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“Christopher says his car was parked,” I said. “He says he was sitting by the curb when the impact happened.”
My father looked toward the heavy oak desk in the corner of the room. The brass lock on the middle drawer gleamed under the small desk lamp, the key ring still hanging from his belt loop.
“People remember things differently when they are facing liability,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “The police report was clear enough.”
“Did you read the report yourself?” I asked.
He stood up, his joints making a dry cracking sound in the quiet room. He did not answer me, but walked past me toward the hallway with his head lowered.
I turned and went out the back door into the garden, where the air smelled of damp earth and rotting oak leaves. Christopher stood near the edge of the stone path, his dark coat buttoned up to his chin.
“She wants me to leave,” Christopher said as I approached. “She told me so in the hallway while you were upstairs.”
“My father says the police report was clear,” I said. “He wouldn’t look at me when he said it.”
