In the living room, the only sign of human life was Victor, Brady’s stepfather, seated in a high-backed rocking chair with a moth-eaten blanket across his lap, staring at an unlit fireplace. He did not turn when I entered. On the coffee table, a piece of lined notebook paper sat beneath a ceramic coaster.
I picked it up.
Gone on a cruise with my ex. You’ll stay home and take care of stepdad. He needs you.
I read it three times. Then I looked at Victor, who slowly turned his head and opened one eye to examine me with a gaze that contained nothing of the dementia and vacancy Brady had spent years describing to me. The eye was sharp, assessing, and tired in the specific way of someone who has been waiting for a very long time for something unpleasant to arrive and has finally watched it walk through the door.
“Shall we begin?” he said.
His voice was a rasp, but it was entirely lucid.
