The smell of furniture wax was thick enough to taste, a sharp lemon scent that didn’t quite cover the damp draft coming through the floorboards. I dragged the steel wool across the top of the old oak dresser, waiting for the wood to show its true color.
Across the room, Ethan bounced his basketball on the plywood subfloor, his eyes fixed on the dark window. The dry thud echoed in the small space, regular as a heartbeat.
He was ten now, but he still kept the ball close, never letting it out of his sight since the local sheriff stopped by last Tuesday.
“Your father bought me this dresser for forty dollars,” I said, rubbing a fresh dollop of wax into the grain. “He claimed it was solid oak, but the drawer bottoms are plywood.”
Ethan caught the ball with both hands, the rubber surface making a sticky sound against his palms. “Did he lie to you about other things?”
I stopped scrubbing and twisted the simple silver ring on my right hand, waiting for the cold metal to bite into my skin. “He didn’t stay long enough to lie, Ethan.”
A sharp snap sounded from the side porch, like a dry fir branch breaking under a heavy boot.
Ethan dropped the ball, and we both turned toward the narrow window that faced the lane.
I took the broom out to the porch, sweeping the wet pine needles into a dark heap near the steps, keeping my eyes on the road. The air was cold, smelling of sodden cedar and the salt from the bay.
Mrs. Gable was standing at the edge of her yard, her yellow cardigan buttoned up to her chin, holding an unlit cigarette. She walked over, her eyes fixed on the bend in the road.
“That black car has been sitting there since noon,” she said, pointing a finger toward the corner where the gravel road met the county highway.
A long, dark sedan sat under the dripping alders, its tailpipe puffing white exhaust into the cold air.
“Probably just someone lost, Mrs. Gable,” I said, though my fingers tightened on the broom handle.
