His name was Harold, and most people in town described him as successful, charismatic, and persuasive. I had always known him as complicated, but on that gray afternoon something about his expression made a warning crawl through my chest. My stepmother Monicastood beside him in a sleek black coat, her hand resting lightly on his arm while she whispered something that made him nod slowly.
My younger brother Caleb shifted beside me and murmured, “You okay, Brooke? You look like you swallowed ice.”
“I’m fine,” I replied automatically, although nothing inside me felt fine.
After the burial finished, people gathered near the cars while rain began falling in thin silver threads. My father approached me with that calm voice he used whenever he wanted to sound reasonable. “Brooke, we should talk about the house and the paperwork soon,” he said quietly.
I frowned, confused by his timing because our grandmother had not even been in the ground for ten minutes. “Dad, can this wait until later?”
Monica smiled with gentle sympathy that somehow never reached her eyes. “Your father is only trying to make sure everything is organized properly, sweetheart.”