William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“She will open it,” Karen said. “She knows the sheriff is only ten minutes behind you.”
The drive to Sue’s peeling colonial house took twenty-five minutes through the mid-day traffic. The air coming through the dashboard vents was cool, carrying the sharp, damp smell of wet oak leaves from the gutters along the suburban streets.
When I pulled up to the curb, the front lawn was covered in yellow poplar leaves that had drifted against the rotting wooden porch steps. There was no sign of Marsha’s car, but Sue’s heavy blue sedan sat in the driveway, its rear bumper rusted near the tailpipe.
I walked up the wooden steps, my boots squeaking slightly on the damp pine boards. Before I could knock, the front door opened three inches, held by a brass security chain.
Sue stood in the dim shadow of the hallway, her face partially obscured by the copper screen.
“He is in the kitchen,” Sue said. “I have packed his things.”
“I need his green overalls and his winter coat,” I said. “And the blue sneakers.”
