“I remember.”
“What?”
“You breaking it.”
“You were three.”
“I remember pieces.”
Ethan sat beside him.
“What pieces?”
“You were crying.”
He looked away.
“Grandma had coffee.”
Ethan remembered the silver tray.
The cups.
The expression on Vivian’s face.
Noah continued.
“I thought Mommy was under the floor.”
Ethan’s chest tightened.
“Were you scared?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
Noah shrugged.
“You told me it was okay.”
Ethan smiled sadly.
“I had no idea whether it was.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You say that when you don’t know.”
Ethan laughed.
Apparently children noticed everything.
Noah turned the pendant over.
“What did Mom want?”
Ethan looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“With the box.”
The question deserved a real answer now.
“She wanted me to know the truth.”
“About Grandma?”
“About a lot of things.”
“Did you?”
“Eventually.”
Noah stared at the star.
“Did it fix stuff?”
Ethan thought about Rachel’s letter.
The arrests.
The company.
The years of therapy.
Vivian.
Caroline.
Robert.
Noah.
“No.”
The boy looked surprised.
“Then what was the point?”
“The truth doesn’t always fix what happened.”
Ethan leaned back.
“But it stops the wrong story from becoming permanent.”
Noah was quiet.
Then nodded.
He put the necklace around his neck.
It rested near his heart.
For one strange second Ethan saw Rachel.
Not literally.
Noah looked like him more than her.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
Same crooked smile Ethan had in childhood.
But something about the way Noah touched the star was Rachel.
Careful.
Thoughtful.
Protective.
Ethan turned away before his son saw his eyes.
Noah groaned.
“You’re crying again.”
“I am not.”
“Dad.”
“Dust.”
“There’s no dust.”
“Old house.”
“You renovated it.”
“Go do your homework.”
Noah laughed and left.
On what would have been Rachel’s fiftieth birthday, Ethan invited Marcus Dean to dinner.
Marcus brought his wife.