That part was familiar.
For years, Vanessa had told anyone willing to listen that I was the daughter who had “run away.”
What she meant was that I had moved three states away after accepting a job I could not afford to turn down.
To Vanessa, distance was proof of disloyalty.
Apparently the phone calls did not count.
The plane tickets did not count.
The money I had quietly sent whenever Dad needed something did not count.
And the previous forty-eight hours apparently counted least of all.
I could have defended myself.
I did not.
Because Dad set his mug down with extraordinary care.
That scared me more than if he had shouted.
My father got quieter when he was truly angry.
Vanessa continued.
“Grant already has someone coming to evaluate the truck. We contacted the bank, and we’re going through Dad’s office today.”
Dad raised one eyebrow at the word office.
