Emma studied me for a moment.
Then she said something I wasn’t expecting.
“Is it because of Michael?”
My hand stopped on the lid of the tin.
I looked at her carefully. “Why would you ask that, honey?”
She shrugged, but it wasn’t the careless shrug of a child who had forgotten what she was talking about. It was the small, guarded movement of someone who had already learned that certain subjects could cause trouble.
“Mom gets mad when anybody talks about him.”
I pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down.
“Emma, who is Michael?”
She looked toward the basement door.
Continue on the next page:
