She nods in understanding. “That’s one of the reasons I left Corden Park as fast as I did. I saw Clara everywhere. It got to be too much.” She runs her hands over the white paint of the bench. “It’s a nice tribute, though.”
“He commissioned it himself before he died,” I admit. “It arrived a few days after the funeral. I tried to send it back, but they told me they wouldn’t accept it. Then I thought about smashing it to pieces and burning what was left. In the end, I didn’t; I put it here. It felt right. Out of sight, so I wouldn’t have to see it every day. But not gone. Never gone.”
Her breath, low and raspy, is all I hear. “I think you owe it to him to try and forgive yourself, Misha.”
“What would I be without my guilt?” I ask, only half-teasing.
“What’s left without it?” she fires ba
