A voice spoke behind me.
“Clover?”
I turned to see an older man—maybe in his late sixties. His face was lined deeply, and his tie looked too tight, as if someone else had tied it for him. He held his cup with both hands.
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “Did you know my dad from work?”
He nodded once.
“I’ve known him for a long time, honey. I’m Frank.”
I searched his face but felt no recognition.
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” he replied quietly.
That answer made me pause.
“What do you mean?”
He stepped closer. I caught the faint smell of engine grease and peppermint as he glanced around the room.
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Then he leaned in.
“If you want to know what really happened to your mom,” he said softly, “check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”
“I… what?”
“I made him a promise,” Frank continued. “This was part of it.”
“Who are you?” I asked, my heart beginning to race.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, handing me his business card. “I wish your parents were here for you.”
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