"Has Ray talked to you since Daddy died?"
She shook her head quickly. "No."
"Has anybody from his club?"
"Just the card."
"Anything else?"
Maisie hesitated.
"Grandma Dorothy said a man dropped off a package for Miss Rebecca once."
My fear became anger before reason could catch it. I drove to Dawson Custom Works the next morning.
The shop stood in a row of low industrial buildings near the river. Three motorcycles were parked outside, along with a pickup and a wheelchair-accessible van from the mobility supplier. I noticed the van and ignored what it should have told me. Ray was outside sweeping metal shavings near the side door.
He saw my car and stopped. I walked toward him.
"Stay away from my daughter."
No greeting. No explanation. Ray set the broom against the wall.
"Sarah."
"Don't."
"I haven't approached Maisie."
"You've been sending things."
"The foundation sent a birthday card."
"She has drawings of you."
"Those are from Daniel."
"You're still working on something he started."
Ray looked toward the closed shop door.
"Yes."
I felt betrayed all over again.
"I don't want it."
"It isn't for you."
The sentence made me furious.
"She's my daughter."
"I know."
"Then you don't get to decide what belongs in her life."
"I'm not deciding. Daniel did."
"Daniel is dead."
The words struck both of us. Ray lowered his eyes.