PART 3
Inside my farmhouse, the air smelled like woodstove smoke, pine, black coffee, and the pot roast I had forgotten to put away.
I handed them towels.
June apologized for dripping on the floor.
Walter apologized for the mud on his boots.
Then they apologized for apologizing.
That was the second sign.
I made tea.
Not because I’m charming.
Because coffee at two in the morning for people that old felt like manslaughter in a mug.
Walter sat at my kitchen table with both hands wrapped around his cup.
June sat only after I pulled out the chair.
Max lay down by her feet.
When she took off one glove, I saw the bruise.
A dark ring around her wrist.
Too clean to be a fall.
Too shaped to be an accident.
June caught me looking and tugged her sleeve down.
“I’m clumsy,” she said.
“Sure,” I said. “And I’m a ballerina.”
Walter’s eyes flicked up.
June gave a tiny nervous laugh, then stopped as if laughter required permission.
I leaned against the counter.
“Who are you running from?”
Walter stared into his tea.
June didn’t move.
Outside, the storm punched the windows.
Then Max lifted his head.
His ears snapped forward.
Headlights appeared down my lane.
Fast.
Too fast for mud, weather, or good intentions.
Walter’s cup rattled against the saucer.
June’s hand flew to her mouth.
The truck stopped at my gate.
May you like
Then a man’s voice ripped across my property.
“Walter! June! I know you’re in there!”
