A curtain moved in the front window. It was Grandma Ruth, her pale face appearing for a second behind the lace before disappearing back into the dark living room.
She lived in a small cottage on Elm Lane, but lately she spent most of her days at Clara’s house, sitting in the kitchen like an old piece of furniture that had been moved but never unpacked.
I turned off the ignition. The sudden quiet of the car felt heavier than the engine noise.
I took the lilies from the seat and opened the car door. I decided not to ring the bell. I had a key, and Clara always complained when I knocked like a stranger.
The spare key was exactly where it had been for twenty years, hidden under a cracked clay flowerpot by the back porch. I let myself in through the side door, stepping onto the linoleum hallway that smelled of lemon polish and stale floor wax.
“Clara?” I called out, but my voice was quiet.
I passed the closed door of Josh’s study. The brass lock was tarnished, and the keyhole was dark. I remembered the smell of his pipe tobacco that used to drift under the door frame on Saturday mornings while he worked on the family ledgers.
