EPILOGUE

At twilight, a man walked down the street of a quiet cul-de-sac in a sedate suburb at the edge of a modest city. He stopped in front of a little bungalow with a front porch teeming with herbs and flowers. He crossed the yard, dipped beneath a willow tree, and stood just inside its curtain of leaves, mostly hidden from the view of any inconvenient passersby.

He watched the pleasant scene unfolding on the other side of the picture window. It framed a living room that stretched into the kitchen at the back of the house. The front room was cluttered with photos and handmade art crafted by a child. A blanket and pillows lay disheveled on the couch. Stacks of books precariously perched in towers everywhere. Dog toys were scattered on the floor.

Warm, creamy light spilled out onto the spring grass. The windows were open, and he could hear the clink of plates and a strain of music plucked on a guitar, then a man’s voice singing silly lyrics, followed by the high, bright laughter of a child and the happy bark of a dog.

The sounds drew the man closer to the house, closer to the people inside, closer to his family.

They are mine, he thought. I want them.

But then Mouse turned, carrying something from the oven to the table. She took his breath away. She’d always been beautiful—he expected no less from his daughter—but he’d never seen her shine with such joy. She looked like an angel.

“Birhan texted this afternoon,” Angelo said as he dropped the guitar onto the couch and went back to the table, where Luc was laying out the silverware.

“Is he coming soon?” the boy asked.

“His mom’s with him in Rome now, and they were planning to come when he’s on school holiday in a couple of weeks.”

“That’s perfect! They’ll be here for my gallery opening,” Mouse said as she sat down between them, now facing the picture window.

Her father spun away from the glass, his body pressed against the house as a flare of jealousy drove out his tender moment of pride. Mouse had finally gotten what she’d always wanted—a family and a normal life. Her dream closed the door on him. What part could he have in such a life?

But in the corner of his eye, he saw the thin line of crusted blood and sparkle of salt that ran along the baseboard between the window and the door. Mouse was his daughter still.

With a flush of unaccustomed generosity, he decided that she deserved a respite. A snippet of old scripture came to mind—To everything there is a season. He would ensure Mouse and Luc a season of joy and peace, free of torment from him or anyone else.

There would be a time later to fulfill his own dreams. He could wait. He was good at waiting.