“You don’t have to stay here by yourself,” she said gently. “Come stay with me.”

“This is my home,” I replied.

Her smile stayed fixed. “We’ll talk later.”

Then I heard my name.

“Clover?”

I turned.

An older man stood there—late sixties maybe. Clean-shaven, deeply lined face. His tie sat too tight around his neck, as if someone else had tied it. He held his cup in both hands like it might fall.

“I’m sorry,” I said cautiously. “Did you know my dad from work?”

He nodded once. “I’ve known him a long time. Frank.”

I studied him. No recognition.

“I don’t think we’ve met.”

“You weren’t meant to,” he said quietly.

That stopped me.

“What does that mean?”

He stepped closer. I caught the scent of engine oil and peppermint. His eyes scanned the room before he leaned in.

“If you ever want to know what truly happened to your mother,” he murmured, “look in the bottom drawer of your stepfather’s garage.”

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