My brother John smells like the sea and fresh air, the opposite of the dusty gloom in my father’s house. Or, more accurately, my mother’s now.
John grabs my right hand. “We can do this,” John says.
I shrug and pull my hand away. What else is there to do?
“Ye don’t understand. Ye were away when Father died.” I clench my fists. “The inquest was wrong. He never took his own life! He wouldn’t do such a sinful thing.”
John shakes his head and motions for me to sit on the bench next to the door. He sits down next to me and takes both my hands into his.
“Sarah, ye must accept the truth. This past April, Father walked into the lake and didn’t walk out again;
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