He pulled nervously at his shirt collar, his thumb catching on the worn cotton hem. The words hung in the air, cold and sharp, but before I could ask him what brick house he meant, the gravel in the driveway crunched under heavy tires.
Headlights swept across the living room window, throwing long, distorted shadows of the porch banisters against the wallpaper.
I stood up and walked to the front door, my hand resting on the cold metal latch of the screen door.
Paul stepped onto the porch, his boots heavy on the pine boards. He was wearing his tan deputy uniform, the silver badge pinned to his chest catching the pale light from the hallway.
“Martha,” he said, his voice low and clipped. He adjusted his leather duty belt, the metal handcuffs clinking against his heavy key ring.
“He is in the living room, Paul,” I said, stepping aside to let him in.
Paul did not move right away. He looked at me, his eyes searching my face for the grief he had watched me carry for two long years.
