The smell of artificial pine air freshener rolled out through the screen door, thick enough to cover the stale scent of old dust.

I stood on the welcome mat of the remodeled Lakeview house and waited.

I knocked twice on the heavy wooden frame.

The porch boards creaked under my boots.

I had walked three miles from the bus station because a taxi cost fourteen dollars.

My thin denim jacket gave no protection against the cold autumn wind coming off the lake.

Brenda opened the heavy black door only halfway.

She stayed behind the locked screen.

She wore a dark blue dress and looked older than fifty-eight.

Her hair was pulled back tight against her scalp.

“Mason Prescott,” Brenda said.

“You have no business being on this property.”

She used my full name, speaking slowly, like a disappointed teacher dealing with a slow student.

“Where is my father?”

Brenda reached up and touched the silver necklace resting against her collarbone.

“Jonathan passed away,” she said.

I stopped breathing for a second.

I rubbed my right wrist, feeling the dry, cracked skin over my pulse.