He scuffed his boot on the gravel path again and looked up at me with steady gray eyes.

“Can I come back Saturday morning to put a coat of sealant on the swing set?” he asked.

“Saturday at nine is fine,” I said.

I stood up, shifted Theodore onto my hip, and took my car keys out of my sweater pocket.

The gravel drive at Bellevue Crest had been swept clean when we pulled up at two in the afternoon.

The three dark police cars were gone, and the tall iron gates stood wide open in the warm autumn sun.