He stepped in, close enough that I caught the scent of engine grease and peppermint. He glanced around the room — once, twice — and then leaned in.
“If you want to know what really happened to your mom,” he said, “check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”
“I… what?”
“If you want to know what really happened…”
“I made him a promise,” he continued. “This was part of it.”
“Who are you?” I asked, my heart beating faster.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, handing me his business card. “I wish your parents were here for you.”
And then he was gone, blending into the crowd like he’d never been there.
I stood frozen, his words louder than the organ music rising from the living room.
