His drawl was slow, the words stretching out as he leaned forward.
“No,” I said, stepping out of the car. “Why?”
“A black pickup truck sat by your mailbox for twenty minutes,” he said. “A young fella got out and walked up your gravel.”
I walked toward the mailbox at the edge of the road.
“Did he leave something?” I asked.
“He looked like he was searching for something,” Mr. Palmer said. “He kept looking at your front porch like he wanted to go inside.”
I stopped by the wooden post. Resting across the top of the metal mailbox was a long, rusted tire iron.
“He left this,” I said.
“That is not yours?” Mr. Palmer asked.
“No,” I said.
“There are some strange folks running around Oak Creek lately,” he said. “You keep your door locked, Claire.”
I picked up the iron bar. It was thirty inches of solid steel, scratched and pitted with orange rust.
