A longer silence.
“Your father has a driver?”
I looked at Wren sleeping beside me.
“I need to take care of our daughter. Good night, Roland.”
I ended the call.
We drove beneath the old oak trees of Peachtree Road.
Through the iron gates.
Past my mother’s rose garden.
The house was fully lit.
Upstairs, a lamp glowed in the window of my childhood bedroom.
Raymond stopped at the front entrance.
The door opened.
Gregory, the house manager, greeted me.
He had worked there since I was nineteen.
“Welcome home, Miss Caldwell.”
“Where is my father?”
“In his study. He asked me to tell you he doesn’t want to overwhelm you. He said to rest. He’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”
Gregory paused.
“Even if that’s never.”
I stood in the marble foyer.
The staircase curved above me.
My mother’s portrait hung over the fireplace.
