Chapter 18: The Key

I used my own key.

It was my first time on that porch since the morning of the fight.

The key felt heavier than I remembered.

Dean's truck was gone from the driveway.

He had texted at noon: I'll be out until six. The house is yours. I haven't touched anything of yours.

Faye waited in the car at the curb with a thermos and a crossword.

She had said she would give me an hour.

After that she would come in with her nurse face on.

The lock turned.

The house smelled like coffee and old laundry.

It was cleaner than I'd expected.

The dishes were put away.

The mail sat in a neat stack on the console, with my name on the top envelope.

On the kitchen counter, I had left a package of ground beef to thaw on the morning of the ride.

There was nothing there at all now.

I stood in the spot for a while.

Then I put my cane against the cabinet and walked through the downstairs one room at a time.

The living room had a blanket folded on the couch and a single pillow.

A mug sat on the end table with a ring of old tea in the bottom.

He really had been sleeping there.

The bike hooks in the garage were empty, because his bike was gone.

Mine, the wrecked one, still leaned against the wall in Faye's garage.

I climbed the stairs slowly, with my hand on the rail and my right knee protesting.

Our bedroom door was shut.

I opened it.

The bed was made the way I made it, with the corners tucked tight.

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