Credence

“We’ve got a lot to do today,” I warn him, knowing it takes him at least twenty minutes to get out the door after he wakes up.

I have two sons and neither one of them is entirely present. Kaleb was easier. When he was here. And Noah was always here but never easy.

“Show Tiernan how to do the stalls and feed the horses.”

He nods without looking at me as a yawn stretches across his face.

I pull on my boots and head back into the kitchen, transferring my coffee into a travel mug to take outside with me.

I hear Noah’s voice. “Do you have an undershirt on?”

I look over at him and Tiernan, seeing her nod. She wears jeans and a peasant blouse, not really dressy, but it’s white.

“Take off your shirt then,” he says, taking a drink.

She pinches her eyebrows at him.

“I’m giving you a new one,” he explains, tossing the flannel over his shoulder onto the back of a chair. “And kick off your shoes.”

He heads across the kitchen, opening the shop door and reaching inside. He pulls in a pair of his old muddy, rain boots from when he was thirteen or so and tosses them across the floor at her.

It’s a good idea. She won’t want her expensive clothes ruined.

I dart my eyes to her, expecting her to look uncertain, but she only hesitates a moment before slowly starting to unbutton her blouse.

I clear my throat again and look away. She should be doing that in the privacy of the bathroom.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her pull off the shirt and fold it over the back of a chair. She has something else white on underneath, and I see Noah approach her, but I keep my eyes averted as I grab an apple to take outside with me.

An invisible hook keeps tugging at my chin—pulling at me to look at her—but I just blink a few times and charge out of the room, biting hard into the apple.

This is bullshit.

/> An hour later, I’m pulling up to the stables in an ATV loaded with a few bales of hay when my phone rings.

Pulling it out, I look at the number and see it’s the same area code as Tiernan’s.

“Hello?” I answer. I don’t want any crap, but it could be her parents’ lawyer calling, so…

“Hi, Mr. Van der Berg?” a woman with a slight accent says. “I’m Mirai Patel. Mrs. de Haas’s assistant.”

I hold the phone to my ear, pulling on my work gloves. “How does a dead woman still have an assistant?”

But she doesn’t respond, and I almost smile, because I’ve succeeded at being insensitive.

“What do you want?” I ask, hauling a bale into my hands and stacking it next to the stable. “Tiernan has a phone if you want to talk to her.”

“I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

For Christ’s sake, why?

Ms. Patel is silent for a moment and then inquires, “How is she?”

How is she? That’s why you’re calling me?

“She’s fine,” I grunt, pulling another brick of hay up off the ATV.

She’s quiet again, and after a few more moments, I take the phone in my hand, about ready to hang up. I don’t have time for this.