He walked up the wooden porch steps.

The screen door banged shut behind him, echoing across the empty yard.

I stood by myself on the wet concrete and watched him vanish into the dark hallway.

The brother I grew up with was gone.

At zero nine hundred on Friday morning, Arthur Vance sat behind a heavy oak desk.

His strip mall office smelled of old paper, and an old window air conditioner buzzed against the glass.

I slid a faded blue folder across his blotter.