Richard Hale arrived at my house at one-forty.
He was sixty-two, maybe. Tall. Silver hair. A gray suit that probably cost more than my first car. He’d driven himself. A big black sedan that looked ridiculous parked in front of my little yellow house.
He wasn’t alone.
Brandon Pierce got out of the passenger side.
And then, from the back seat, Shelly Haskins.
I was on my front porch in my rocking chair, shelling peas into a bowl. I’d changed into a clean blouse. I’d left the boots on.
Shelly saw me and burst into tears.
She came running up my front walk, past the roses, up the porch steps, and threw her arms around my neck. The bowl of peas went flying. Peas everywhere. Rolling across the porch boards.
“Dot,” she sobbed. “Oh, Dot. Oh, Dot.”
“Hush now,” I said. I held her. “Hush. It’s all right.”
