My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
We parked fifty yards down the curb from my parents’ two-story colonial home, under a maple tree that had dropped most of its red leaves onto the grass. The house looked cold in the autumn light, its green shutters closed tight against the breeze. My mother’s sedan was parked in the driveway, its silver bumper reflecting the pale sky.
“The blue folder is on the back seat,” Christopher said.
I reached behind my seat and pulled the blue plastic folder from the floor mat. It felt heavy, filled with the copies of the deputy’s payroll records and the insurance claims I had copied at the archives.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We got out of the car. The street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a leaf blower three blocks away. We walked up the concrete path to the front porch, our shoes making a soft scuffle on the dry oak leaves.
I did not ring the bell. I turned the brass knob, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped into the hallway.
