She was good at that voice. Smooth, trembling, expensive. It was the same voice she used at church fundraisers, at bank meetings, and whenever she needed to make my father feel guilty for being tired.
Linda Mercer had been married to my dad for eleven years. Long enough to redecorate the farmhouse, turn his old workshop into a “sunroom,” and convince half the county she’d saved him from loneliness after my mother died. Long enough to make sure every picture of my mom somehow ended up boxed in the attic or “accidentally” broken.
She wore black at the funeral, of course. Tailored black, the kind that looked more New York than eastern Kentucky. She cried into a folded handkerchief and accepted casseroles like campaign donations.
When the last hymn ended and most of the town had drifted out into the gray afternoon, Mr. Boone, my father’s attorney, asked us both to meet him at his office on Main Street.
That was when Linda’s hand tightened around my elbow.
