“You shut her out.”
“The storm killed Maya.”
“You were in her ear.”
For once, he had no answer.
Then he looked past me at the sketchbook. “No one needs to know about this.”
I almost laughed. “No one?”
“The memorial showcase is tomorrow, Jackie,” he said. “They want you to speak. Keep it appropriate.”
“Appropriate?”
“No one needs to know about this.”
“This family has suffered enough.”
“You mean you’ve suffered enough embarrassment because your daughter wanted to be an artist.”
His eyes went cold. “Careful, Jackie.”
“No. I was careful for years. Look where it got us.”
“If you accuse me in public, people will think grief broke you.”
I picked up Maya’s sketchbook. “Grief did break me. Just not the way you hoped.”
“Careful, Jackie.”
***
I spent that night at a motel and called Katherine.
“He admitted it,” I said.
“What do you need?” she asked.
“Stand with me tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Stand with me tomorrow.”
***
The next evening, the community college auditorium was full. Maya’s art covered one wall. Sadie’s covered another.
I stopped at Maya’s painting: yellow daisies under a dark sky.
