The lawn mower was still rumbling under my hands, but somehow I heard every word. Maybe because trouble has its own volume. Maybe because a man always knows when his quiet life is about to get wrecked.
Elise Harper stood on the back steps of the little yellow house behind mine.
One hand held a white coffee mug.
The other gripped the porch railing.
She wore a pale blue sundress, her dark hair twisted up with a pencil stuck through it, and her face went so still it looked like someone had pressed pause on her life.
“Sophie,” I said, killing the mower. “That’s not something you ask people.”
My daughter didn’t even look at me.
“It’s okay, Dad,” she said. “I asked politely.”
Elise let out one tiny laugh.
It sounded nervous.
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