“The old transport logs are going into the county furnace on Friday,” she said. “Tell Emily to stay away from that archive room.”
I took my stamps and walked out into the cold, the paper envelope heavy in my coat pocket.
When I got back to Elm Street, I stood by the front window, looking out at the empty gravel.
The dark driveway remained still, and the kitchen windowpane rattled in its frame.
At seven the next morning, Emily set her mug down on the Formica table with a sharp tap. She had a blue folder tucked under her arm, its cardboard edges frayed from storage.
She slid it across the table, stopping it right next to my toast.
“Look at the dispatch times,” she said.
Her silver paperclip twisted between her thumb and forefinger, making a tiny clicking sound.
“The state police log says the road was clear until nine,” she said. “But look at the entry on page three.”
I reached for my glasses, my left hand instinctively rubbing my bare wrist where my old watch used to sit. The folder contained photocopies of county radio logs, the ink faded to a dull gray.
