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“Yes, this is Ash Thorne.”
Another question followed, and the relief disappeared. “Yes, that’s my father.”
Max turned toward me as I stopped breathing. The officer kept talking, but the words seemed to arrive individually, refusing to form anything my brain could understand.
Vehicle.
Collision.
Identification.
Scene.
Pronounced.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“When?”
The officer answered, and I stared at the floor while the information went somewhere I couldn’t reach yet. Then one thought punched through everything else.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
Max straightened beside me.
The officer explained, and some of the pressure in my chest loosened.
“The truck driver? He’s definitely okay?”
Yes. Evaluated at the scene. No significant injuries.
I closed my eyes. “Okay. Thank you.”
There were things I needed to do, apparently. Numbers to call, someone I needed to speak to, a case reference and arrangements that belonged to me because there was nobody else.
I looked at Max, and somehow he understood without me asking. He already had his phone out and a note open while I repeated the number the officer gave me, followed by the name and reference.
“I’ll call. Yes.”
The officer asked another question. Next of kin. I swallowed. “No. There’s nobody else.”
Eventually, the call ended, but I didn’t lower the phone immediately. I sat there listening to nothing while the screen went dark against my ear, unable to make myself do something as simple as move my hand.
Max didn’t touch me.
He didn’t ask what had happened or fill the silence with questions I couldn’t answer. He just stayed beside me while the barn continued existing around us as though the world hadn’t changed at all.
Finally, I lowered my hand, and Max waited.
“My father’s dead.”
Chapter twenty-three
Center - The forward who generally plays through the middle of the ice and takes many of the team's faceoffs.
Ash
By the time Ignatius’s plane touched down in Denver, I had slept for approximately forty minutes and spent the rest of the flight discovering there was apparently no correct way to feel when your abusive father died less than twenty-four hours after you found out he’d built most of your life around a lie.
