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I ran my fingers over the page and got the urge to ask him about it.

It was Thursday morning. My dad had left for work already. He’d tried to brew me coffee or make me breakfast, but I’d waved him off and said that I could fend for myself. I had done that for the two years of my adolescence that I’d spent here, just me and him, after all. I was used to it.

I was in my room, reading this travesty of a confession or an elaborate excuse or an accusation against Damian—whatever it was—whatever Opal had written.

How could I even get in touch with him?

I did not have his phone number, and we were not friends on any social media, and I had long ago cut him out of my life, or he had cut me out of his life, or we’d cut each other out. Whatever the case, he was dead to me.

And it should not matter, because ultimately, he’d chosen her.

He’d said he didn’t really have a choice, because she was pregnant with his child or whatever, because he had bitten her or whatever, but maybe what he was really saying was that he had a choice and he’d chosen her and he had been in denial about it afterwards for a while. Eventually, he came around to the truth of it.

I knew where he lived.

I let out a breath.

No, no, no. I would not do that.

I thought about getting in my rental car and driving along the river, all the way down to that big house that had been built for him and his family and his cwen, his Opal.

Rental car!

I was supposed to have brought it back yesterday.

Damn it.

Momentarily distracted, I called the rental place. They told me that when I did not return the car, it was automatically rented to me for another day at the same rate, and that there was a penalty inflicted for not returning it, but that since I had called, she could take it off. Which was cool, because I didn’t even ask her.

“Yeah, well, you mentioned you were there for a funeral, so it seems really inhumane of me to punish you for being distracted and grieving,” said the woman on the line.

Had I mentioned that? Oh, yeah, at the beginning of the call. I thanked her profusely and said I’d bring the car back on Friday evening.

I hung up with the car rental company.

Then, without really deciding to do it, I went out of the house and downstairs to look at the rental car.

I opened the driver’s side door, got in, and put the key in the ignition.

What the hell was I doing?

Oh, whatever, I knew exactly what I was doing.

I drove to his house.

It wasn’t right on the river, but further inland, in the woods. There was a long driveway, winding between the tree trunks. It sat at the top of a hill. There was an inground pool and a trampoline. There was a gazebo and an outdoor meeting area for the pack—with built in rows of seating and a platform. It was like a resort, not a house.

I parked in the circular driveway and went to the front door. I stood there, unable to move, not knocking, thinking maybe I’d just drive home.

“Hey, it’s you,” said a voice, and I turned to see that Opal’s oldest son was coming up from the woods. He was wearing a t-shirt and jogging shorts. His hair was pushed back from his forehead, wet with sweat. “You’re here to see my dad.”

I offered him a hand. “I’m Leona Shore.”

“I know who you are.” He did not shake my hand.

“Jace, right?” I said.

His nostrils flared. “I don’t want a new mom, you know. My mother said things to me, before she died, about how you and my dad would probably—”