Then I noticed movement behind the front window.
A boy, perhaps twelve years old, was inside.
He was wearing Frank’s old baseball cap.
I recognized the ugly thing immediately because Frank had owned it for about thirty years and refused every suggestion that he replace it.
The boy was kneeling beside Frank’s open suitcase, carefully removing items from it.
My stomach tightened.
I got out and walked toward the house.
The front door stood open.
Several boxes were stacked in the hallway, and two men were carrying furniture toward a van.
Some boxes had FRANK written across the sides.
His shoes sat beside the staircase.
His travel bag was on a chair.
His cane leaned against the wall.
Claire had sent almost none of these things back to me.
For one wild second, I wondered whether the message in the ring was warning me about something far worse than an ordinary lie.
I stepped inside.
“Claire?”
