Inside were six folded flannel shirts, three pairs of work jeans, his leather boots from the garage, and his shaving kit from the bathroom counter.

A marked Franklin County sheriff’s cruiser pulled up to the curb with its roof lights off, and Trevor’s white contractor van pulled in right behind it.

Trevor climbed out of the driver’s seat slowly, stepping carefully around a patch of frozen slush at the edge of the driveway.

He came up the concrete walk and stopped at the foot of the three wooden porch steps, looking up at me in his dark navy winter coat.

“Val,” he said, his voice soft and smooth around the edges, the same gentle tone he used to talk homeowners into signing off on a pricey kitchen add-on.