Chapter 7: The Door on Alder Street

Nate's POV

Carol Ellison's house still had the green door.

I had stood on that porch at twenty-four with my hat in my hands and let her tell me what I was worth.

The door was the same.

Everything else on Alder Street had changed.

The roof was new, gray and tidy, with copper gutters.

A silver SUV sat in the drive with a Slocumb Auto Group frame around its license plate.

I had not slept since Jean put her hand in mine on a hospital blanket.

I rang the bell and waited.

Carol opened it in a church cardigan with her glasses on a chain.

Her face did two things in a row.

First it went blank, and then it went tight.

"Nathan Trumbull," she said. "I heard you were back."

"Mrs. Ellison."

"I don't know what you want. She's a married woman."

"I want to ask about letters," I said. "Eleven of them. I mailed them to this house over three years, with Jean's name on the front."

"I don't remember any letters."

"They were addressed in my handwriting. Blue ink."

"Then the post office lost them."

"Every single time?"

Her mouth tightened.

Over her shoulder, I saw the hall closet by the stairs.

The door was open an inch.

Her eyes flicked to it, and then back to me too fast.

I filed that away.

"A man left your daughter with six healed fractures," I said. "I saw the scan. Doctors don't make those up."

"A husband's temper is a private thing," she said. "It's no business of a boy who ran off."

"I did run," I said. "You told me to. I'm not running now."

"Stay away from her."

"She asked me to come."

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