"Quieter," he said. "Not silent. I don't think I want silent."
Monique nodded as if he had said something wise, though he felt only honest.
"Marcus used to say that secrets are just stories we're not ready to tell," she said. "I hated that. It sounded like an excuse. But maybe he was right. Maybe he was waiting until he could tell Andrew's story in a way that wouldn't destroy you. Maybe he ran out of time before he found the way." She looked up at the string lights. "Or maybe he was scared. People get scared, Thomas. Even good ones. Especially good ones. They're the ones who know how much damage the truth can do."
"The truth did damage," Thomas said. "But it also gave him back to me. For a minute. On paper. That's more than I had in October before Ava ran across the lawn."
Monique's smile was small and real. "That child. She has no idea what she set in motion."
"She will someday," Thomas said. "When she's older. When you tell her the whole of it. She deserves to know that her father carried a dying man's last words across state lines and kept them safe. That's a kind of heroism that doesn't make the news."
"I'll tell her," Monique promised. "When she's ready. When I'm ready."
They sat in silence for a while. A night bird called from somewhere near the creek that ran behind the neighborhood. The string lights hummed their faint electric hymn. Thomas felt, not happiness exactly, but a settling — the way a house settles after a long winter, boards finding their new true.