I stood near the hallway table, nursing a glass of lemonade I hadn’t touched. The furniture still smelled like him — wood polish, aftershave, and the faint trace of that lavender soap he always claimed wasn’t his.
Aunt Sammie appeared at my side like she belonged there. She hugged me tight.
« You don’t have to stay here alone, » she murmured. « You can come home with me for a while. »
« This is my home. »
Her smile didn’t change. « We’ll talk later then, sweetie. »
Aunt Sammie appeared at my side.
My name came from behind me.
« Clover? »
I turned.
An older man stood there — maybe late 60s. He was clean-shaven but deeply creased. His tie was too tight, like someone else had knotted it for him. He held his cup in both hands, like it might slip.
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