“I know,” I replied, swallowing the lump that had been rising in my throat since 3:00 p.m. “But the house is still there. It’s our house now.”
It was a lie, or at least a partial one. The farmhouse had been sitting empty for three years, ever since my father, Thomas, had passed away from a sudden coronary while working the north pasture. I had been stationed in Germany at the time, unable to make the flight back before they laid him in the ground beside my mother.
Daniel had handled the paperwork. He had traveled to Briar County alone, returning with a folder of legal documents and a brief, dismissive summary. “The place is a wreck, Rachel,” he had told me over a crackling satellite connection. “The taxes are high, and the structure is rotten. We’ll keep it in the family name for now, but don't expect to ever live there. It’s a liability.”
I had trusted him. I had trusted the man who had kissed me goodbye on the tarmac at Fort Bragg, promising to keep our home safe while I served my third tour.
But trust is a fragile currency, easily spent and impossible to counterfeit once it’s gone.