Samuel placed a firm hand on my elbow and guided me toward the glass exit doors before the defense attorney could answer.

We walked out into the bright October sunlight without looking back at the elevators.

By four o’clock in the afternoon, the house on Elm Street was completely quiet.

The bank investigators had gone back to their main branch, and Samuel had driven back to Maple Avenue to file the final probate deeds.

I walked out through the back kitchen door and crossed the dry autumn grass to the wooden garden bench Dad had built twenty years ago behind the tomato patch.

The cedar was weathered gray, but the iron bolts holding the slats together were clean and tight, greased every spring with machine oil.