Emma was sitting quietly on the rug now, lining up three green crayons in a neat row beside her shoes.

I climbed the carpeted stairs to the second-floor landing.

The linen closet door stood half open, showing tidy stacks of white sheets, bath towels, and spare pillows.

I found the heavy linen tablecloth on the top shelf, eased it down, and laid the folded bundle over my left arm.

Downstairs I heard the kitchen screen door slide closed, and then the soft sound of my father heading toward the dining room.

Then came a violent metal crash that shook the hallway floorboards under my feet.