“My father,” I said, “was the kind of man who noticed details other people missed. He could walk into a courtroom and tell which witness was lying by the way they held a pen. He could step onto a sailboat and feel a weather shift before the sky changed. And he could look at me from across a room and know when something in my life was wrong before I admitted it to myself.”
My voice wobbled, and I paused long enough to let it steady.
“When I was ten, he taught me how to tie a bowline in our backyard using one of his good neckties. My mother nearly killed him for it. He told me there were two things a person should always know how to do—secure what matters and get themselves loose from danger.”
A few people smiled through their tears. Aunt Helen made a small sound that might have been a laugh.
I could feel Grant watching me now. Becca too. The air around them had changed. She’d come in smug. He’d come in cowardly. Now both of them looked like they were sitting on a detonator.
“My father called me two nights ago from hospice,” I continued. “He was tired. His voice was barely there. But he told me he’d hired a private investigator.”