Leon Carter stood in the back room of the shop he had owned for twenty-three years and saw, as if a curtain had been drawn aside, the afternoons of 1996 and 1997 and early 1998: the Sportsman’s Lounge on Pennsylvania Avenue, two blocks down from where he now stood, gone now, a vape shop now; the long bar with the cracked red vinyl stools; leaving Zeke’s chair at two, at three, at one, telling Zeke he had a headache, a dentist, an errand; the drive home to the rowhouse on Whitelock Street with the window down so the air would hit his face; the house quiet when he came in, and Loretta in the kitchen, and the house quiet, always so quiet, and Tasha at Mrs. Odom’s next door, because Loretta had a late shift, because Mrs. Odom liked the company, because—
He had never once asked himself why his daughter was always next door.
“I thought,” he said. His voice did not sound like his own. “I thought your mother was working.”
“I know you did,” Tasha said.
Out front, the clippers buzzed. The television cheered something. Odell laughed his wheezing laugh. On the other side of the curtain, Leon’s grandson sat on a bench with a butterscotch candy in his cheek, waiting to find out what he had done, and whether it was good or bad.
Leon put the envelope inside the bib of his apron, against his chest, beside the brass key. He took a breath that went all the way down. He let it out.
“I’ve got three heads waiting,” he said. “I’m going to finish them. Then I’m going to close up. Then we’re going to call Odessa Lyles and go over to Bethel Hope and open that locker.” He looked at his daughter. “Together. Like your mama said.”