As he spoke, I kept stealing glances at the empty grave in the yard. I suddenly remembered the diary that had been in Dad’s backpack.
Maybe it contained details about what had really happened in Pinehill.
Back when the police returned the backpack, Mom wouldn’t let me read the diary. She said she was afraid I’d be too heartbroken, that I might never recover from the trauma of losing Dad, so she buried it with the empty grave.
But if I were to dig it up now and take a look, maybe I could find some clues. I could compare them to the words of the man in front of me who claimed to be my father and maybe the truth would come to light.
I kept the plan to myself, chatting with “Dad” half-heartedly.
By noon, he offered to cook lunch for me. Even though the weather wasn’t particularly warm, he turned on the air conditioner, setting it to a low temperature, blasting the cold air directly onto himself.
In the constant swirl of cold air from the air conditioner, I thought I caught a strange, inexplicable odor.
But I didn’t dare say anything. I forced myself to act as if nothing was wrong, eating the meal Dad had cooked for me. The taste was just as awful as it used to be. Nothing seemed unusual.