I closed the notebook.
“You dismissed her.”
“Yes.”
There was shame in his voice.
“I did.”
“Did you go to St. Anne’s?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the detective told us the remains had been identified. Because your wife had just lost her daughter and was calling hospitals every morning. Because I was grieving too, and I wanted certainty more than I wanted questions.”
That answer landed harder because I understood it.
I had wanted certainty too.
When Dorothy mentioned, once, that she wasn’t comfortable with the sealed urn, I had told her continuing to question the police would only prolong our pain.
I had forgotten that conversation until that moment.
Memory is convenient that way.
It preserves the things we can live with and buries the ones we cannot.
“I’m going to St. Anne’s,” I said.
“The building closed three years ago.”
“Then I’ll find whoever worked there.”
