Annabelle sat curled up on the chaise in her room, the soft glow of her bedside lamp illuminating the space with a warm amber hue. The phone rested against her ear, her mother’s voice crackling slightly on the other end.

The call had started awkwardly, as they always did with Mauve.

Each of them danced around their pain, careful not to touch the raw wounds that still lingered.

But tonight was different.

“I think about him sometimes, you know,” Mauve said softly, breaking the quiet between them.

“Dad?” Annabelle asked, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

“Yes. Patrick Shaw.” Mauve exhaled heavily. “I think about...