I'd already started searching for cemeteries on my phone, ready to make arrangements for Terry's burial.
Old Mr. Harmon was still going, his words coming in halting fragments.
"Thin build. Full head of black hair—"
"What?!"
John's roar tore through the air, cutting the old man off mid-sentence.
"You said black hair?!"
"That's right..."
I had just added the cemetery manager's contact on my phone when I heard John exhale.
I looked up slowly. Our eyes met.
The tension in his face had dissolved. Something unspeakable had settled in its place—relief. He pointed at me and let a few quiet words fall from his lips.
Stella, so the one who died was your father...
My entire body went numb.
I was about to explain, but John suddenly laughed.
"Stella, your dad was always like this. Couldn't stand to miss out on anything free. I built this house for my father, and yours just had to come stay a few days. Fine, stay then, but he went and set the place on fire..."
As he spoke, his amusement curdled into anger.