William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
A grandfather clock ticked in the front hallway, every stroke sounding like a small hammer against metal.
I walked up the carpeted stairs, keeping my weight close to the wall where the wood was less likely to groan. Sue’s bedroom was at the end of the hall, the door standing halfway open to reveal a room that looked like a barracks. The bed was made with hospital corners so tight the blue blanket looked like painted steel.
On the left side of the room stood her heavy oak vanity, its small mirror framed by white vanity bulbs that caught the pale light from the streetlamp outside.
The top drawer was locked, the brass keyhole small and tarnished. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my small penknife, inserting the flat blade into the gap above the lock and twisting until the cheap brass latch gave way with a soft click.
Inside the drawer, resting on top of a stack of old nursing manuals, was the blue folder.
