By noon, David was waiting in his truck in the driveway, the engine idling with a loud rattle. He had come back to take me to town, his eyes red-rimmed and his jaw set tight as he stared through the windshield. I got into the passenger seat, the heater already blowing dry, dusty air into my face. The windshield was covered in a thin sheet of melting ice, and the wipers made a dry scraping sound as we pulled onto the road toward the center of Millersburg.
He parked near the side entrance of Vance Department Store, where the yellow brick was stained from years of rain. He turned off the ignition, but his fingers stayed wrapped around the steering wheel, his brass keyring clinking against the column.
“We need to search that cellar today, Clara,” he said, turning his body toward me. “The old storm doors on the outside of the house are rusted shut, but there is an inside stairwell behind the pantry.”
“The cellar is just dirt and old fruit jars, David,” I said, twisting my mother’s silver ring around my pinky finger. “There is nothing down there but damp air and spiderwebs.”
