mountains. Between gusts of wind, a low murmur drifted out from the living room.
“How did you hear about my dad?”
“One of my colleagues is working the case.”
“You’re a detective?”
“Sheriff’s deputy. You sound surprised.”
“I thought maybe you would end up a teacher or something. You always turned in the best paper in AP English.”
But that was my only AP class. The truth was, I hadn’t been a great student in high school. Always distracted, the teachers said. It wasn’t distraction, though, it was exhaustion. I worked after school, took care of my sister, and stayed up most nights until my father came home. Nothing the teachers talked about in class seemed all that important by comparison. In AP English, at least, we got to read novels, and I’d always loved reading. I took a drag from my cigarette and tried to picture myself the way Nora had, in a classroom with kids, but the image seemed incongruous to me. The path my life had taken was the only one I could imagine for myself now. “I guess we don’t always end up where we expect,” I said. “What about you?”
“I’m a musician. A composer.”
“See now, that makes sense.” What could be more natural than Nora at the piano? She was always a minute or two early to music class, a minute or two late in leaving. Played every tune perfectly the first time around, then had to wait for the rest of us to catch up. “Is there someplace I can hear your music?”
“Not really.” She hesitated. “I mean, I’ve recorded a few pieces you can find online, but I don’t have orchestra commissions or a record deal or anything like that. I work as a substitute teacher to pay the bills. So.”
Without knowing why, I felt I had to stave off the disappointment I heard in her voice. “I’m sure you’ll get one soon.”
“That makes one of us,” she said with a chuckle.
We were quiet for a long moment, though the silence was not uncomfortable. Sitting together in the dark, we could see everything inside the house. It made the moment feel intimate, as if we were sharing something secret, or even illicit. In the kitchen, her sister put a fresh kettle on the stove, then said something to two women standing at the counter. An elderly couple walked into the living room, carrying Pyrex dishes covered with aluminum foil. The phone rang three times before someone went to answer it. “Are you waiting for those people to leave?” I asked.
“It’s been such a horrible day, I can’t bear talking to anyone.”
“Who are they?”
“The man sitting next to my mom is my uncle. He brought a friend of his from the mosque out in Los Angeles, to help her arrange the funeral. The couple drinking coffee in the kitchen are our neighbors. And the others are friends of my sister’s, for the most part.”
In the pi?on pine, an owl hooted. Nora brought her knees to her chest and gathered her arms around them. “I can’t cry,” she said.
“I didn’t either after my mom died. Not for a while, anyway.” I stubbed out my cigarette.
“Can I bum one off you? You’re tempting me.”
When I flicked the lighter for her, I noticed a tattooed inscription on the inside of her wrist, but I couldn’t make out the words. It was too dark and her hands were shaking. “This is probably no consolation,” I said, “but Coleman—the detective who’s working the case—she’s really good. She’ll find the bastard who did this.”
“She hasn’t told us anything. My dad gets run over half a block from the restaurant and she can’t rustle up any leads. Nothing.”
“She will. It’s just going to take a little time.”
“I knew this would happen.”
“How do you mean?”
“I knew something terrible would happen. You remember his business was arsoned after September 11th? They never found out who did it. And then he put up a huge flag outside his restaurant, like he had to prove he was one of the good