Very close.
Whoever had copied it had practiced from something real. A shop invoice maybe. A birthday card. A closing document. My name sat at the bottom of the page, familiar and wrong at the same time, like seeing a photograph of yourself with someone else’s eyes.
I called Holden.
“They filed,” I said.
He did not sound surprised.
“Good. Now we answer in the open.”
The hearing was set for the following Monday.
Scarlett spent the weekend acting tender.
That was the worst performance yet.
She made oatmeal I did not ask for and placed it in front of me with sliced bananas arranged like I was a child. She asked whether the altitude made me dizzy. She suggested I let Garrison drive me to appointments. She told me, while folding a blanket over the arm of the couch, that accepting help was not weakness.
Garrison watched all of it from the edges of the room.
On Sunday evening, I found him alone on the back deck. Snow lay in patches under the pines. The valley below was turning blue with dusk. He held a mug of coffee in both hands, though it had stopped steaming.
“You remember the first gate we built together?” I asked.
He glanced at me, startled.
“What?”
“For the Hargrove ranch. You were thirteen. You burned through two practice pieces before you got mad enough to listen.”
His mouth moved slightly.
“I remember.”
“You cried in the truck on the way home because you thought I was disappointed.”
“I was a kid.”
“You were my kid.”
The words sat between us.
He looked out toward the mountains.
“Dad…”
I waited.
He shook his head.
“She says you make me feel guilty on purpose.”
I almost smiled, but there was nothing funny in it.
“No, son. Guilt is what tells you when you still know the difference between right and wrong.”
His eyes closed.
For a moment, I thought he might say it. Something honest. Something that could still become a bridge.
Then the sliding door opened behind us.
Scarlett stepped out in a white sweater and soft socks, like she belonged in a lifestyle magazine version of my life.
“There you are,” she said to Garrison. “We should go over tomorrow’s schedule.”
Garrison turned away from me.
Again.
By Monday morning, the air was so clear it hurt to breathe.
The courthouse in Aspen stood against the mountains with clean stone steps and windows that caught the sun. I arrived with Holden, Luna, Dr. Pierce Hoffman, and Dr. Sandra Quinn, the specialist who had performed my cognitive evaluation. Iris came too, carrying a slim black folder and wearing a charcoal coat that made her look like she had been born unimpressed.
Scarlett and Garrison were already inside.
Scarlett wore navy. Conservative. Soft makeup. Hair pulled back. Concerned daughter-in-law from central casting. Garrison sat beside her in a gray suit that did not fit quite right at the shoulders. He looked at me once when I walked in, then looked down at his hands.