Now I finally had the answer.
Yes.
But not because of anything I had done.
Because that was simply the kind of man Raymond Cole was.
I didn’t speak to Naomi for three days.
We stayed in the same house.
We barely looked at each other.
I packed Mom’s clothes.
Naomi organized financial documents.
We communicated through notes on the kitchen counter like angry roommates.
On the fourth morning, I found Naomi loading suitcases into her car.
“What are you doing?”
She didn’t look at me.
“Going home.”
“We haven’t finished the house.”
“You can handle the rest.”
“So you’re just leaving?”
She laughed bitterly.
“What do you want me to do, Harper?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
She shut the trunk.
“I know you’re angry.”
“I am.”
“You should be.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to disappear.”
Her expression changed.
“I thought you didn’t want me here.”
“I don’t know what I want.”
Naomi folded her arms.
“So figure it out.”
She opened the driver’s door.
I suddenly remembered something.
When I was seventeen, I had crashed Mom’s car after sneaking out.
Naomi had taken the blame for letting me drive.
Mom grounded her for a month.
I didn’t confess until years later.
Naomi had protected me even when I didn’t deserve it.
I walked toward her.
