“I was a clerk, Natalie,” I said.
“Then prove it,” she said. “Come to the cookout and let everyone see you are just normal.”
She did not wait for me to answer before she turned down the chip aisle, her sandals squeaking on the white linoleum.
I looked at the flyer she had dropped into my basket. It was printed on cheap, heavy paper that left a trace of orange dust on my fingers.
The address listed for the cookout was Grant’s house on Oak Road.
The sun was a low red smudge behind the maple trees when I pulled into the driveway. The dry heat of the August grass had turned the air thick and sweet.
Mr. Palmer was sitting on his porch next door, his hands clasped over the curved handle of his cedar cane. He was seventy-two, and he lived alone since his wife passed away three winters ago.
“You have a visitor earlier?” he called out.
