"Your mother called."

Nanette snapped brittle sticks of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water, then turned away from her father to retract a jar of sauce from the refrigerator.

"That's nice."

"She wants to know if you can come to Atlanta for Christmas."

"And leave you here alone? Go away." The last bit was directed at an orange housecat, who swiped at Nanette's toes before scampering off.

Her dad looked out the window, where the garage light illuminated the flecks of white that emerged from the darkness above. "We could celebrate Christmas a few days early. Or later."

Nanette reminded herself to stop clenching her teeth. It was something her dentist had told her: her constant neck pain was likely a result of the fact that she held all her tension in her jaw.

"So, you think I should go," she clarified, working her lower mandible, willing it to loosen. She dumped the sauce into a pan and adjusted the stovetop heat.

"You haven't seen her in a year." There was silence but for the bubbling from the stove. "Nan?"

Nanette fought to keep her tone reasonable. "I can't believe you're taking her side. You. Of all people."

Her father rubbed at the lined canvas of his forehead. His hands were large and calloused, the result of a lifetime of chopping wood and hauling deer carcasses from the woods after a successful hunting trip. Before November, Deputy John Townsend's only experience with sudden death had been with deer, rabbits and the field mice that had once taken up residence in their basement.

Not so, anymore.

"A teenaged girl should have a relationship with her mother," he said, his gravelly voice fatigued. "If she and I can be civil, so can you."

Nanette didn't respond to that, choosing instead to mince the garlic with a bit more force than necessary.

chop, chop, chop

"She's been saying 'sorry' for the past two years, Nan. What else do you want from her?"

"If she were really sorry-" Nanette started.

She wiped the garlic into the saucepan with the blade of the knife and busied herself with pulling clean dishes from the dishwasher. "Go wash your hands."

The words she had left unspoken were heavy in the air between them.

If she were really sorry, she'd come back.