But I hear the lock turn.
I wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like—the tightening in my chest, my inability to catch my breath. I wipe my hand across my face, surprised to find sweat on my upper lip.
“Cole,” Mr. A says. “Come in.”
He doesn’t offer his hand. But he steps back and lets me enter the house.
Mrs. A is sitting at the dining table. Her hair is perfectly brushed, and she’s wearing her favorite lipstick. Her tee shirt is tucked into a pair of elastic-waist pants.
It takes me a moment to realize why she looks so wrong. Then it comes to me: She isn’t wearing her apron. In fact, I can’t smell anything cooking in the kitchen. There isn’t even a pitcher of lemonade on the table.
“Please,” Mr. A says. “Sit down.”
I do, saying, “I picked up your mail.” I hand it across the table.
“Thank you.” Mrs. A’s words are stiff and precise, as if she’s reciting a recording in language lab.
Mr. A says, “We weren’t certain you would show up.”
“It’s the last Sunday of the month.”
He says, “Well…”
Mrs. A jumps in before he manages to find his way through the thicket I never meant to plant between us. “We want to be clear,” she says. “We hoped you wouldn’t show up.”
The words hurt a thousand times more than I expect them to. They aren’t a surprise. The Andersons made themselves perfectly clear the day Tarasov released the indictment. But I somehow thought that the fact I’ve been allowed inside meant I had been forgiven.
Mr. A says, “What Linda means is, we need more time before we’re ready to talk about what happened.”
Mrs. A covers his fingers with hers. For the first time ever, I notice age spots on the back of her hand. Her knuckles are swollen, and I’m fairly certain she can’t slip off her wedding ring.
She says, “Evan is being too kind. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Neither of us does. But the fact is,you’vehurt us. When you lied to us, you told us you didn’t trust us with the truth. All the ways we’ve tried to help you didn’t matter. Youconnedus, Cole, the same way your mother conned so many people. And like your mother’s victims, we feel foolish now that we know the truth. We feel like laughingstocks. You had so many chances to come clean. But every single time, you chose to continue the lie. That’s why we can’t be sure how long it will take for us to get over. If we ever get over it.”
She’s practiced the words. Memorized them. I wonder how many times she said them to herself in the mirror.
I nod, because she’s only saying what I deserve. “May I try to explain?” I ask.
She sighs. It’s Mr. A who says. “Go ahead.”
I’m so relieved I’ll get a chance that I almost forget to speak. But I open with, “I told you last time… After I got out of juvie,when I started to build Lone Wolf… I knew the two of you wouldn’t approve.”
“We loved you,” Mr. A says.
I’m terrified by those words, by the fact that they’re in the past tense. But I can’t give up on making my point. “I was working cons, using everything Shannon ever taught me. But I made it more than that. I built real solutions for my clients. I gave them what they needed. I wasn’t just a thief.”
“You madebillions,” Mr. A says.
“I did. It was almost a miracle. Who could have known that the kid you two saved would have that sort of potential? But Irealizedmy potential because of what you did for me, because of the support you gave me. You believed in me, even after juvie.”
Mr. A doesn’t have a response for that. Mrs. A just shakes her head.
“I know I started without any idea of values, or morals, or ethics. But the two of you taught me. You really did. Even while I was keeping so much of my life secret from you—a decision I will always, always regret—I tried to do good things. I did my best to help.”
Mr. A says, “We’ve always appreciated your help around the house. Cleaning the gutters, sweeping out the garage… you’ve never been afraid of hard work. You were never too proud to do the dishes.”
“I wanted to do more than that.” I gesture at the grocery store flyer sitting my Mrs. A’s elbow. “Those grocery gift cards… The cash I slipped into the oatmeal box in the kitchen… Maybe I wanted you to catch me. Maybe I wanted you to know the truth.”
“Gift cards?” Mrs. A asks, looking confused.
