He had on his dark gray wool coat, the one with the suede collar, and his leather shoes clicked on the linoleum.

“Saw your car out front, Clara,” Dean said, his voice loud and cheerful.

“The farm stand on Route 4 had fresh orchard pears.”

He set both bags on the counter, right on top of the wooden drawer where the camcorder was hidden.

He raised his arms and brushed imaginary dust off his coat sleeves twice.

“You look worn out,” Dean said.

“Have you two been hauling heavy boxes around that dusty attic all afternoon?”