“Robert, are you certain you still have the documents?”
I looked at the brown envelope resting on the passenger seat.
“Yes.”
“The original copies?”
“The bank gave me certified copies. I also printed the county filing.”
“And Geoffrey does not know you have them?”
I stared through the windshield at a row of stucco homes glowing orange in the late-afternoon sun.
“No.”
Martin was quiet for a moment.
“Then don’t go back.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Don’t call him either. Not tonight.”
That part was harder.
Even after everything I had learned, some stubborn part of me still wanted my son to explain himself.
I wanted Geoffrey to call and say there had been a misunderstanding.
I wanted him to tell me Allison had filled out something incorrectly.
I wanted him to sound like the boy who used to sit on the garage floor handing me sockets while I changed the oil in our old Buick.
