I turned.
An older man stood there — maybe late 60s. He was clean-shaven but deeply creased. His tie was too tight, like someone else had knotted it for him. He held his cup in both hands, like it might slip.
“I’m sorry…” I said slowly. “Did you know my dad from work?”
An older man stood there — maybe late 60s.
He nodded once. “I’ve known him for a long time, honey. I’m Frank.”
I searched his face, but nothing sparked.
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” he said, his voice low and rough.
That made me pause.
“I’ve known him for a long time, honey.”
“What do you mean?”
He stepped in, close enough that I caught the scent of engine grease and peppermint. He glanced around the room — once, twice — and then leaned in.
“If you want to know what really happened to your mom,” he said, “check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”
“I… what?”
“If you want to know what really happened…”
“I made him a promise,” he continued. “This was part of it.”
“Who are you?” I asked, my heart beating faster.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, handing me his business card. “I wish your parents were here for you.”
And then he was gone, blending into the crowd like he’d never been there.
