“That’s why Mia thought it was him. She used to trace Mike’s tattoo every night before bed.”
“I know. I only remembered afterwards. When she said it at the pool. I thought I was going to be sick.”
I nodded slowly. My eyes were burning.
“Harold, thank you for telling me.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. For now.”
Harold walked me to the door. On the porch, he tried to say something else.
“Alison. There’s more I should probably say. But I don’t know how to say it.”
“Then don’t. Not today.”
For illustration purposes only
I got in my car and sat there for a full minute before I could turn the key. Because I’d seen his face when he stopped himself, and I knew that whatever he’d swallowed back was the piece that actually mattered.
And I knew I was going to have to come back and ask for it.
I drove home from Harold’s that morning and couldn’t ignore our last interaction.
I sat at the dining table with a cold cup of coffee, and turned it over in my mind until noon while Rachel prepared breakfast for Mia. Then I texted him: “Can I come by this afternoon? I need us to finish our conversation.”
