Then she asked, “Can you say the other thing again?”
“Which thing?”
“That you didn’t say it.”
Cassian leaned closer.
“I never told Viola I didn’t want you.”
Poppy closed her eyes.
He repeated it once more.
Not as a performance.
Not until the words lost meaning.
Just clearly.
After a while, she asked for the story.
Miriam handed him the book.
He read every page.
At the doorway afterward, he looked back.
Poppy was watching him.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he said.
“Not on the phone?”
“Not on the phone.”
She nodded.
He left the door open as wide as she asked.
Viola left that evening.
Her sister collected her.
Cassian did not threaten her or make a scene at the front door.
He told her they would speak about their relationship after he understood what happened.
She wanted to say goodbye to Poppy.
He refused for that night.
“She’ll think I’m terrible.”
“She’s trying to sleep.”
“You’re letting her decide whether I belong here.”
“No,” he answered. “I am deciding you won’t ask her to manage your feelings tonight.”
After Viola left, Helena remained.
She found Cassian at the kitchen table with the small personal phone in front of him.
“Have you looked?”
He shook his head.
“Then don’t do it as though the call log will tell you more about your child than she did.”
He looked up.
“I believe her.”
“I know. Make sure she knows you believed her before you checked.”
He nodded.
The phone contained ordinary traces.
Incoming calls.
Messages.
A photograph Viola had taken of the flowers.
Nothing that looked dramatic enough to match what happened inside his daughter’s head.
Helena sat opposite him.
“I called while you were away.”
Cassian looked at her.
“What did she tell you?”
“That Poppy was overtired. That you were trying to encourage a little independence.”
