Rook did.
Not aloud. Not yet.
Eli finished one chapter and began another. Rosie’s yellow ribbon rested beneath Lucy’s chin.
Whitaker asked Rook about Michael.
“He lives in Cincinnati,” Rook said.
“Family?”
“Wife. Little girl.”
“You see them?”
Rook’s silence answered.
Whitaker removed his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his coat.
“Michael wrote me last year.”
That landed harder than a fist.
Rook stepped closer. “Why?”
“He wanted the operative report from his accident.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
The answer angered Rook because it contained another unanswered door. He turned toward the hallway, but Eli stopped reading.
“Mr. Rook?”
Rook looked back.
“If Lucy wakes up, do you think she’ll like Rosie?”
Rook stared at the bear.
“My son had one like it,” he said.
That was new to me. Rook rarely mentioned Michael’s childhood. He reached into the inside pocket of his leather cut and removed a small square of blue fabric, frayed on every edge.
