I walked through the house, past the living room where I had taught Caitlyn to walk, past the kitchen where Britney had made Sunday dinners for thirty years, and opened the front door.
Cody Jenkins stood on my porch in a pressed sport coat, smelling like expensive cologne.
Behind him was a woman in a blazer carrying a leather portfolio.
The notary.
And beside her stood my daughter, looking as though she had not slept in two days.
Caitlyn would not meet my eyes.
In that moment, I knew one of two things had happened. Either she knew and had gone along with it, or she had only just found out and was horrified.
I told myself it was the second one.
I kept telling myself that.
Cody looked at me with the expression of a man who believed he held every card in the room.
“Nathan,” he said, “do you mind if we come in?”
“Sure, Cody,” I said. “Come on in.”