“Martha,” the woman said, her voice dropping into a low, cautious tone. “We all know about Euan. Do you need me to call Dr. Bennett?”
“I need the sheriff’s office,” I said.
“Tell me your address again, Martha,” she said.
I gave her the address, sixty-four Hickory Lane, and set the heavy black receiver back on its cradle. The hum of the old kitchen refrigerator seemed louder now, filling the spaces between my own breaths with its steady, metallic vibration.
Euan sat on the edge of the living room sofa, his knees tucked close to his chest under the faded blue rocket shirt. He was shivering, a small, rhythmic tremble that shook his whole frame.
I walked to the hallway linen closet and took down the heavy green wool blanket Roger had brought home from the army surplus store. It smelled of cedar and old wool, a dry, dusty scent that had not changed in two years.
I wrapped it around the boy, tucking the corners under his small canvas shoes.
