“And he never wondered why a healthy seven-year-old kept falling asleep?”
“Apparently not enough to stop sleeping with her mother.”
I closed the folder.
“Document everything,” I said.
“Already am.”
When I got home, Ruby was asleep in the guest room with one sock half-off and Grace under her chin. I stood in her doorway until my anger got too big to carry silently and then I went to the garage and sat in the truck with the lights off until it shrank back down into something useful.
That was when I finally called Daniel and told him I needed him to come home.
Not why.
Just that he needed to come.
He arrived Friday evening after work wearing a navy blazer and carrying the smell of traffic and office air and the life of a man who still believed his house was his house.
I had made pot roast.
Beverly used to say there are meals for celebration and meals for fortification, and pot roast was for fortification. So was cornbread. So was sweet tea in a tall sweating glass.
Daniel walked in smiling.
“Smells incredible.”
“Sit down,” I said.
He glanced toward the hallway. “Ruby asleep?”
“Yep.”
He loosened his tie and sat.
For ten minutes I let him be comfortable. I let him eat. Let him complain about a client in Nashville. Let him tell me Ruby had sounded happier on the phone last night than she had in weeks.
Then I stood, went to the counter, and placed three things in front of him.
The toxicology report.
The pharmacy records.
Ray’s folder.
I sat back down.
Daniel frowned. “What is this?”
“Read it.”
At first, confusion.
Then concentration.
Then a stillness so total I could hear the fridge motor kick on behind him.
He read the report twice.
Flipped through the pharmacy records.
Opened the folder.
Saw the photos.
Closed it.
He got to his feet so slowly it looked painful.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Then he walked to the hallway bathroom and shut the door behind him.
I stayed where I was.
There are pains a father cannot intercept for his son. That is one of the meanest lessons of aging. You can teach him how to change a tire, shave, throw a punch, apologize, save money, pick good boots, grill a steak, and bury a dog. But there are certain doors he still has to walk through alone.
He was in there seven minutes.
When he came back, his eyes were red but dry.
He sat.
Looked at the table.
Then at me.
“How long?”
“Since Tuesday.”
“You knew since Tuesday.”
“I needed to be able to prove it before I put it in your hands.”