“He calls when he needs money,” he said once, without looking up from his coffee. “Or when he wants to know if I’ve decided what to do with the house.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I plan on living in it.”
They both laughed, but Caleb felt something sharp settle in his chest.
On the Sunday Mr. Henry died, the porch light was still on at nine in the morning. He never left it on after sunrise. By noon, the ambulance had come. The paramedics said he had passed away peacefully in his sleep at eighty-four.
The funeral was small. Too small for someone who had lived so many decades on that street. Evan arrived late, wearing expensive cologne, an expensive suit, and impatience in his eyes.
“The house is going up for sale this week,” he said after the service. “No reason to let it sit there collecting dust.”
Caleb clenched his fists.
“It was his home.”
“It was property. And now it can finally be useful.”
