My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
My father did not drop his hand. He kept his gray eyes on mine, his thumb pressing the edge of the brass key until his skin turned white.
“Take it anyway,” he said.
I took the key from his hand, the metal warm from his pocket.
“Thank you, Dad,” I said.
“Get your things,” my mother said, her voice flat and final as she turned her back on us and walked toward the kitchen.
We walked up the stairs to the guest room in silence, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The room was cold, the radiator having been turned down to fifty degrees after we arrived. My small overnight bag sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, its zipper halfway open.
Christopher stood by the window, his back to me, looking down at the dark garden below. The wind was coming from the north now, rattling the loose pane in the sash.
“She is going to call him,” Christopher said, his voice a low rumble in the small room.
“She won’t,” I said, though my fingers were still twisting the silver band on my thumb. “Not if she knows what is in that library.”
