Inside the dark hall, three feet away, a floorboard groaned under a heavy weight.

A shadow blocked the thin strip of light from the kitchen doorway.

A heavy brass deadbolt slammed into place with a sharp metallic clink.

The sound of the lock turning on the front door rang across the porch while I stood outside on the steps.

I spent that cold night on my mother Ruth’s sofa, watching the streetlights slice through the sheer curtains.

At nine the next morning I drove my old Buick, with a hundred eighty-four thousand miles on it, to Frank’s little brick house on Maple Street.