She didn’t say where, and before I could ask again, a car door slammed out on the street.

I got up and pulled my coat back around my shoulders.

“Stay here with Mary for ten minutes.”

“Don’t go over there,” Mary said, coming forward.

“He’s been pacing up and down the hallway since five o’clock.”

“I’m going to get her clothes,” I said.

In January the ice on our driveway crunches under heavy boots, a dry, crisp sound that usually meant Trevor was hauling in an armload of firewood.

The front door swung open before I got to the top step of the porch.