William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“I cannot take this, David,” I said, though my fingers stayed near the edge of the paper.
“You can and you will,” he said, tapping the pencil on the table once. “They are going to Sue’s house for their weekly Wednesday dinner at five-thirty, William. The old woman always takes them to the steakhouse on Route 5 to show off her retirement pension.”
I looked at the envelope, then up at his face. “I still have my spare key to the back door.”
David stopped twirling the pencil, his face hardening as he looked at me. “If you get caught inside that house, Karen Gable cannot help you anymore.”
“I am not running anymore,” I said, my voice steady as I took the envelope. “I am taking my son back.”
The kitchen door at the back of Sue’s colonial house did not creak when I turned the brass knob at seven o’clock. The air inside smelled of boiled cabbage and old floor wax, a scent that had not changed since I first met Marsha ten years ago. I kept my shoes off, standing on the cold linoleum in my socks as I listened to the silence of the empty rooms.
