The kitchen window of my father’s house was clean enough to show the grease on his fingers. He held the wooden-handled carving knife by the blade, not the handle, as he spoke to my brother Evan.
My truck engine rumbled in the driveway, sending white plumes of diesel exhaust into the freezing air. The smell of burning pine from their chimney drifted down across the hood.
Through the glass, I watched my father, Arthur Carter, rub his temples with his free hand. He was sixty-eight years old, but his shoulders still carried the broad, defensive posture of a man who owned the entire county.
My brother Evan sat at the dining table, tapping his boots against the floor. He did not look up when Arthur gestured with the heavy knife, his mouth moving in a booming bark that I could not hear through the double-paned glass.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent a single text message to my father’s number.
If you do not want me there, I will find somewhere else to be.
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