I drove to the church.

I left those pink flowers by the crepe myrtle over a completely empty patch of dirt.”
Higgins tried to say something, but his voice gave out entirely.

He cleared his throat twice.

The dry, rasping noise bounced off the quiet, polished walls.

“Ona, my dear,” Higgins said weakly.

“Don’t you call me that,” I said.

Arthur turned his head away from the table.

He headed straight for the heavy wooden door.