“Meryl,” he said carefully, “Randall couldn’t manage some of this by himself toward the end.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Six. Seven.”
“Ten,” Jonah said.
Wade glanced at him.
“Your truck tracks,” Jonah said. He pointed toward a faint black curve near the threshold, tire residue on concrete. “That width. You parked right outside more than six times if you were hauling all this.”
Elise turned to him. “How would you know his tire width?”
“I work with vehicles, Elise.”
“You manage a marine repair yard.”
“Yes. Full of vehicles.”
“Children,” I said.
They both went quiet automatically.
That hurt worse than I expected. Thirty-five years of saying that word across dinner tables, from the front seat of station wagons, down hallways when they were teenagers trying to murder each other over bathrooms and phone chargers. Randall would always add, Listen to your mother, usually while doing something that encouraged them not to.
