And I knew while I was doing it.
That is the part. I was not in a fog. I put that folder down knowing exactly which version of the evening I was choosing, and the thing I felt when my father's glass hit the floor was not triumph and it was not grief.
It was there.
I was thirty-one years old and I had a plan that would have protected my sister, and I spent it on four seconds of my mother's face.
What it cost.
That folder should not have left Dray Lines.
The page itself is not restricted. That is true and it is the reason I am not writing this from somewhere considerably worse.
But the fact that it existed, and the fact that I knew his name, and the fact that I was in that building with it, is a conflict of interest that I should have declared on the thirteenth of October and did not declare until the twentieth.
