Chapter 88: What I Told Sophie
One night, Sophie asked whether I had taught Tyler a lesson.
We were washing dishes after dinner, and she stood on a small stool to reach the upper shelf.
I considered the question before answering.
“I didn’t set out to teach him anything,” I said.
“I wanted him to stop hurting people and tell the truth.”
She handed me a plate.
“But he learned something, didn’t he?”
“I hope so,” I replied.
“That part belongs to him now.”
She looked toward the window facing the Mercer house.
The lights were dark because Franklin had moved out and the property was being prepared for sale.
“Do you still hate them?” she asked.
I dried my hands.
“I don’t trust what Denise and Marcus did,” I said.
“I don’t want to live my life hating them either.”
Sophie nodded slowly.
“That’s probably harder than yelling,” she said.
I smiled.
“Most useful things are harder than yelling.”
She rolled her eyes at my attempt to sound wise.
Then she asked whether we could take the Lamborghini to her soccer game on Saturday.
I told her we could take it if she promised not to leave muddy cleats on the leather.
She said the promise would depend on the score.
Chapter 89: Sunshine Machine
On the anniversary of my father’s death, I drove the Lamborghini to the cemetery before sunrise.
I carried a small photograph of his yellow delivery truck.
The grass was wet, and the air smelled of approaching autumn.
I stood beside his headstone and told him about the past year as though he had only been away on a long route.
I described the damaged car, the strange investigation, and the people who had helped us.
I told him that Northline had survived, although surviving had required admitting mistakes I once preferred not to see.
I told him that Leah had been braver than I was and that Sophie had learned too much about adult dishonesty.
I also told him she was still finding reasons to laugh.
The sun rose slowly above the trees.
Yellow light touched the edge of the photograph in my hand.
I did not imagine my father giving me advice from beyond the grave.
I already knew what he had written beneath the socket tray.
I returned to the car and started the engine.
On the drive home, I passed the Mercer house without slowing down.
A real-estate sign stood beside the mailbox.
The driveway where Tyler had once posed with a paint can was empty.
My own driveway came into view a few seconds later.
Leah’s car was parked beside the garage, and Sophie’s bicycle lay on its side near the porch.
I pulled in carefully, turned off the engine, and carried my father’s photograph inside.
The Lamborghini was only a car.
The life waiting behind my front door was what I had spent twelve years building.
