The last time had finally arrived.
The patrol car door closed.
Silence followed.
Clara stood near the pantry, still holding the blue folder. At sixty-one, she looked almost exactly as she had when we were young—tall, sharp-eyed, and impossible to intimidate.
She had moved to Oregon after an argument with Daniel nearly two decades earlier. The disagreement had involved a piece of land, a failed partnership, and words none of us had known how to take back.
We sent birthday cards.
We spoke once or twice a year.
But until the previous month, she had not returned.
Now she crossed the room and took my hand.
“You should have called me sooner.”
“I thought I could handle them.”
“You always think that.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
The laugh hurt my ribs, but I needed it.
My attorney, Samuel Reed, entered behind her.
Samuel was a patient man with silver hair and the permanent expression of someone who had already predicted everyone else’s mistakes.
