**
Someone called my name from behind.
“Clover?”
I turned.
An older man stood there—perhaps in his late sixties. His face was deeply lined, his tie pulled too tight, as though someone else had tied it for him. He held his cup with both hands, like he was afraid he might drop it.
“I’m sorry…” I said cautiously. “Did you know my dad from work?”
He gave a small nod. “I’ve known him a long time, honey. My name’s Frank.”
I studied his face, but nothing felt familiar.
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” he replied, his voice low and rough.
That made me pause.
“What do you mean?”
He stepped closer, close enough for me to catch the scent of engine grease and peppermint. He glanced around the room—once, twice—before leaning in.
“If you want to know what really happened to your mom,” he whispered, “check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”
“I… what?”
