I walked toward the far corner of the parking lot, where my old, faded sedan was parked beneath the shadow of a sprawling oak tree—hidden away, just like Sophie had wanted. My hands trembled as I unlocked the door. I didn’t even care about ruining the fabric of the driver’s seat. I just needed to get away. I turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered, coughing twice before finally roaring to life with a low, reassuring rumble.
“Good boy,” I muttered under my breath, my voice cracking.
I pulled out of the estate, the glowing lights of my daughter’s wedding fading into the rearview mirror. As I drove down the dark highway, the adrenaline began to wear off, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache in my chest.
I thought of Catherine. When she passed away five years ago from a sudden illness, she held my hand in that sterile hospital room and whispered, “Take care of our little girl, Frank. She’s stubborn, but she has a good heart.”
