Daniel shook his head. “Maybe because there are things she wants you to remember.”
Something in his voice made me look up.
“What does that mean?”
He did not answer immediately. His gaze moved around the living room, resting briefly on the empty wheelchair.
“When I found her,” he said, “she was on the floor right there.” He pointed toward the kitchen threshold. “She was holding the phone cord so tightly her fingers were stiff. Mom was crying on speaker. Lauren wasn’t.”
I listened, unable to move.
“She looked at me and said, ‘Don’t hate him for me.’” Daniel’s mouth tightened. “Can you believe that? After everything, that was one of the first things she said.”
My chest ached.
“She said that?”
“She said hatred would make this about you. And she was tired of things being about you.”
The words settled heavily between us.
Daniel picked up his jacket from the armchair. “I wanted to hate you anyway.”
“You have every right.”
“I know.”
He moved toward the door, then paused beside the duffel bag. For the first time, his voice softened—not with forgiveness, but with exhaustion.
“Marcus, I’m not here to decide what kind of man you are. I’m here because my sister asked me to make sure you found her letter and left without making things worse. That’s all.”
I nodded.
He opened the front door. Night air entered the house, cool and damp.
“Lock up when you leave,” he said. “And don’t sleep here.”
Then he stepped onto the porch.
“Daniel.”
He stopped but did not turn around.
“Did she ask about me?”
His shoulders rose and fell.
“Yes,” he said. “Once.”
My heart clenched. “What did she ask?”
Daniel looked back at me then, and his expression was almost unbearable.
“She asked if you sounded worried when I called.”
I frowned. “You never called me.”
“I know,” he said. “I told her your phone went straight to voicemail.”
He closed the door behind him.
