Chapter 7 — Where a Door Is

Trent called three days later. I was on the porch, watching the evening sun turn red over the lake, when my phone rang. The calm I’d begun finding at Birchwood still felt fragile, and I nearly ignored him.

Instead, I answered.

“Walter?” His voice sounded worn down. “Can I come out? Alone?”

I looked toward the water. “Rebecca with you?”

“No. She’s at her mother’s.”

An hour later he arrived in an old pickup I didn’t recognize, looking like a man who hadn’t slept since leaving my porch. We sat outside while darkness gathered and bullfrogs called from the reeds.