In the daylight, when she felt like a grown-up with her own car and her own life and her own morals, Vera knew that the grease wasn’t real—that it was something her father’s mind created, a figment that drove him to kill again and again. But at night, in her bed, with the blue light of her laptop stinging her eyes—and there in that closet, with her father’s gloves and his thermos and a pile of old blankets that had once warmed his lap, too—Vera wasn’t so sure. In the dark, when she was alone, she couldn’t help but wonder what she would have learned if they’d only had more time together. What
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