I walked through the kitchen and out into the backyard.
I did not cry.
I did not say one dramatic word.
I stepped into the dry Phoenix night and sat in a patio chair beside the covered pool, and I waited to see whether anyone would come after me.
No one did.
That hurt more than the question itself.
Through the sliding glass door I could see their shapes moving in the dining room.
Hesitation.
Discomfort.
The careful quiet of people who know something ugly has happened but are not yet ready to admit who created it.
No one opened the door to say Daniel had misspoken.
Continue on the next page:
