Not in the driveway.
Inside.
Diane Whitcomb sat at my chipped kitchen table like she owned the air around it.
Her cream coat was folded neatly over the back of a chair. Her pearls rested against her throat. Her lipstick was the same soft pink she wore to church funerals when she wanted everyone to notice how gracefully she suffered.
Grant stood by my refrigerator, wearing a navy suit and the smug expression of a man who believed money made him taller.
Junie gripped my hand so tightly my fingers ached.
“Daddy,” she whispered.
I pushed her gently behind me.
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