Chapter 4 - The Man From The Side Porch
Ethan gave me the name before Margaret did.
The next morning he was eating cereal at the kitchen island while his father, Jason, packed their overnight bags.
Jason was Nathan's older brother.
He had arrived late to the birthday party and missed the rabbit incident by four minutes.
He had spent the rest of the night asking his mother increasingly specific questions and receiving increasingly vague answers.
Ethan looked at me.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Grandma's mad.”
“Grandma can be mad.”
Jason looked toward the hallway.
I continued:
“You don't need to search for things because adults ask you to.”
Ethan nodded.
Then:
“His name was Miles.”
Jason stopped packing.
I looked at Ethan.
“The man?”
“Grandma said it.”
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
Margaret entered from the dining room.
“Ethan.”
Jason turned.
“Mom, don't.”
She stopped.
He rarely spoke to her that way.
Ethan continued:
“She was on the phone saying, ‘Miles, don't bring it here.’”
I looked at Margaret.
“Last name.”
“No.”
Jason laughed.
“Seriously?”
“It is not your business.”
“Apparently Mom's dead brother keeping a room above your garage is everyone's business except ours.”
Margaret turned on him.
“Nathan was your brother, not your child.”
Jason went quiet.
A precise injury.
Margaret regretted it immediately.
She didn't apologize.
Not yet.
Ethan stared at his cereal.
I looked at him.
“Finish breakfast.”
He nodded.
I walked outside.
Margaret followed.
“Rachel.”
“Last name.”
“You are going to call him.”
“Yes.”
“He wants this.”
“Whatever this is, you gave him five years to want it.”
Her face tightened.
Then:
“Dawson.”
I waited.
“Miles Dawson.”
I found him before noon.
Not because I conducted an investigation.
Because Miles Dawson Restoration occupied a storefront twelve minutes away.
He answered the phone himself.
“Dawson.”
“My name is Rachel Carter.”
Silence.
Then:
“I’m sorry about yesterday.”
“Good start.”
“I shouldn't have involved Lily.”
“Correct.”
“I asked for you at the side porch. Margaret told me to leave.”
“So you handed a seven-year-old something Margaret had spent a week trying to find.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He took time.
“Because the rabbit belonged to Lily.”
“It belonged in my hands first.”
“Yes.”
No excuse.
That helped.
“Why did you know about the key?”
Another pause.
“Nathan showed me.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Why?”
“He thought hiding a brass key inside a rabbit was hilarious.”
“That sounds like him.”
“Yes.”
Miles's voice softened.
“He also thought nobody would rip open a toy that belonged to his daughter.”
Margaret had proved him wrong.
“Who were you to Nathan?”
“Friend.”
“That's vague.”
“I restored furniture. He liked building furniture badly.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
Miles continued:
“He started coming to my shop after work. I taught him enough to stop ruining expensive wood.”
“Was Room Three his workshop?”
“Partly.”
“Did he sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“Was he having an affair?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“You're sure?”
“I’m sure about the room. I don't know every hour of a dead man's life.”
Fair.
“What was he doing?”
Miles went quiet.
“I'd rather tell you in person.”
“Why?”
“Because if I say one sentence badly, you'll spend another five years remembering that sentence instead of what Nathan actually did.”
I hated that he sounded reasonable.
“Two o'clock.”
“Shop.”
“Yes.”
I hung up.
Margaret stood in the doorway behind me.
“You called.”
“Yes.”
She looked almost frightened.
“What did he say?”
“That Nathan wasn't having an affair in Room Three.”
Margaret's jaw tightened.
“I never said he was.”
“You made sure I did.”
She looked away.
I stepped toward my car.
Margaret said:
“Miles knew the version of Nathan who wanted to leave.”
I turned.
“And you knew the version who wanted him to stay.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I knew the version who couldn't stand being told no.”
That stopped me.
Because I remembered Nathan angry.
Not violent.
Not cruel.
But proud.
He could turn disagreement into a referendum on whether you believed in him.
Miles might have loved the man who dreamed.
Margaret might have lived with the man who demanded.
Both could be real.
At the restoration shop, Miles showed me no secret archive.
Just furniture.
Dust.
A half-restored dresser.
He was fifty-eight, broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, with the careful hands of somebody used to fixing old joints instead of replacing them.
“You look like Lily.”
“People usually say she looks like Nathan.”
“She does too.”
I sat.
“Why did he have Room Three?”
Miles leaned against the workbench.
“Because he wanted somewhere his mother couldn't walk into.”
I almost laughed.
“Margaret knew.”
“Eventually.”
“Why was he packing my things?”
Miles looked at me.
“He had an apartment application.”
My stomach tightened.
“For himself?”
“For three people.”
“Did I know?”
“No.”
Anger came before grief.
“He was going to move us without telling me.”
“No.”
Miles shook his head.
“He was preparing an option before asking you.”
“That is a polite way to say the same thing.”
“Yes.”
Good.
“What did he think I would say?”
“He didn't know.”
“Then why pack my coat?”
Miles sighed.
“Because Nathan was good at building a future before checking whether anyone wanted to live in it.”
That was Nathan too.
Not martyr.
Not runaway husband.
My husband.
“What happened that last week?”
Miles looked toward the back of the shop.
“He finally understood that Room Three couldn't become another decision made for you.”
“How?”
“I told him.”
“And?”
“He got angry.”
“Of course.”
“Then he came back the next day.”
“What did he say?”
Miles looked at me.
“He said he was going home to ask you what you wanted.”
My throat tightened.
“When?”
“Thursday.”
The day Nathan died.
I stared at him.
May you like
Miles continued:
“He never made it home.”
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