I watched him for a while.
People like simple endings.
Villains exposed.
Victims vindicated.
Marriages repaired or abandoned.
But real relationships are rarely so cooperative.
Daniel had loved me.
Daniel had controlled me.
Daniel had been afraid.
Daniel had known better.
Daniel had failed to stop.
Daniel was changing.
Every one of those sentences was true.
And I no longer needed one truth to cancel another.
A year after the night I woke to the sound of his camera, we visited Rebecca’s grave together.
I brought the detective novel she’d bought from me all those years ago.
Daniel brought flowers.
We sat beneath the oak tree.
“I finally listened to her recording,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You did?”
“With your permission.”
I’d almost forgotten giving it.
“What did you think?”
He smiled.
“She insulted my pantry.”
“She was correct.”
“She usually was.”
The wind moved through the branches.
