Miller looked at the case Ginny had pushed across the table in front of him, but he didn’t touch it. “My dad called her Doodle. She’d draw for hours in these big notepads, that soft white paper…what was it called? Newsprint. She’d draw cartoons and landscapes and people, animals, just whatever. And when she got older, she’d write stories to go with them.” “Did she keep a diary?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention.” Something in this sentence seemed to break him again, because he put his elbow on the table and his face into the comfort of his hand. Ginny had learned the trick of seeing when someone was faking pain, but everything about this guy’s anguish was real. Her fingers crept over the table toward him, but she stopped herself from touching his sleeve. He didn’t seem the sort to welcome it. “I didn’t pay attention,” he repeated. “I didn’t want to know.
