He’d stood in that cold shed trying to protect our family, leaving behind every scrap of evidence he could save.

He’d trusted that the truth would speak for itself in the end.

A small ripple lapped at the wooden pilings under the bench.

“What are you going to do with the Elm Street house now?” Sophie asked.

“I’m staying right where I am,” I said.

“I’m going to repaint the porch railing in the spring.”

“And what about the lake lot?”

“We’re keeping it in the family,” I said.