He was no longer wearing the tailored gray suit, but the impatience on his face was the same.
He stepped onto my porch and demanded to speak to the girls.
“You created a scene at the funeral,” he said. “I was upset, and you took advantage of it.”
“You told hundreds of people you were handing your daughters to the state.”
“I said it because you were standing there judging me.”
“You had already told Rose the same thing.”
That stopped him.
His eyes shifted toward the front window, where the edge of Rose’s photograph was visible through the curtain.
“What did she leave?” he asked.
He did not ask whether the girls were sleeping.
He did not ask whether they had cried.
He asked what Rose had left.
I stepped between him and the door.
“Go home, Arthur.”
His expression hardened.
“Those recordings are private marital conversations.”
I had never mentioned recordings.
By trying to frighten me, he confirmed he knew they existed.
Lucy had been standing in the hallway behind me, close enough to hear.
Arthur saw her and changed his voice immediately.
“Lucy, sweetheart, tell Grandpa this has been a misunderstanding.”
She did not move toward him.
“You said we were ruining your life,” she replied.
“I never said that.”
“Mom recorded it.”
Arthur looked past her toward the staircase, as though he might force his way inside and search every room.
I closed the door before he could decide.
