“I need to take this,” he said.

He opened the back porch door, stepped out onto the damp concrete step, and pulled the door closed behind him.

I heard the back door latch click as Clay went out into the damp night air with his phone held to his ear.

I didn’t follow him out to the porch.

Instead I walked down the narrow carpeted hall to my little study at the back of the house.

The room smelled of old paper and the cedar oil Arthur used to rub into his desk drawers.