Page 142 of Torin

“Guess it’s a good job we’ve got two vehicles.”

“You okay to drive?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll follow you.”

I climb into Torin’s truck, and he waits until I’ve started the engine before heading for Gunnar’s.

The drive to my father’s house takes a little over twenty minutes. Torin stays behind me the whole way, his headlights steady in my mirror.

When I turn onto the drive, the dark stains on the gravel are still there.

For a moment, I see Dr Whitmore sitting against his car again, his hand clamped over his shoulder while blood seeps between his fingers.

I park outside the house and cut the engine.

The porch light is on, spilling its usual yellow glow across the steps. It feels strange to see something so familiar when the life I associate with it is already over.

Torin pulls in beside me. He gets out of Gunnar’s truck but doesn’t come around to hurry me. He leans against the hood and waits.

Eventually, I open the door.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I just want to get this done. Make sure I don’t have to come back here for any reason.”

Inside, I close the door behind us and hear the familiar hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the ticking clock in the living room.

“Where do you want to start?” Torin asks.

“My room.”

We head upstairs.

I pull a suitcase from the back of my closet and drop it onto the bed. I don’t bother folding anything. I empty drawers into it, pull clothes from hangers, throw shoes on top.

Torin watches for about thirty seconds before apparently deciding my system is inadequate.

“You got another bag?”

“In the closet.”

He finds it and starts packing too. I point out what I want and he takes care of the rest. By the time we’re done, the closet is almost empty. I zip the second suitcase and look around the room. There are still books on the shelves, a couple of framed photographs on the dresser and all the accumulated junk that comes from living somewhere for years. I thought I’d want more of it. I don’t.

Torin picks up both suitcases. “You sure this is it?”

“Yup.”

I’m halfway down the stairs when I notice the photograph on the wall. My mother and me. I must have been six or seven, sitting on her lap in the backyard, both of us squinting into the sun. Her arms are wrapped around me, and I’m laughing at something outside the frame. I take it down.

Torin is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“Is that your mom?”

“Yeah.”

He looks at it for a moment. “You look like her.”