His voice sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete, rough from eight long years of not being used.

“Is this about Janice?” I asked.

He gave one firm nod, then flipped the pad facedown on the mattress.

“He went to work,” I said.

“He won’t be home until five.”

Jeremy picked up his pencil case, slid his drawing pad into his canvas shoulder bag and got up without making another sound.

At five thirty the front latch rattled, and the heavy oak door swung inward into the hall.

Zane pulled off his boots in the entryway and lined them up against the baseboard.