“Not through the front hall.

Use the back door.”

I got up slowly, holding the wet skirt away from my knees.

“David, please.”

He looked at his mother, then at the gravy boat sitting crookedly on the table.

“I will get the keys.”

Maeve laid her napkin over her plate as I went into the kitchen.

Through the back door’s glass, I could see the porch light falling across the damp pine needles.

David stood outside with his father, Arthur.

The two of them had their heads close together.

Arthur was Oakhaven’s funeral director.

He held his wire-rimmed glasses to the light and polished them with a gray silk cloth.

His voice carried through the glass, but I could not make out the words.

David nodded quickly.