I got back to Birch Street at three thirty.

The TV was murmuring in the empty den.

The smell of copper-wire brass polish drifted out of the utility room where Daniel kept his gear.

Aunt Linda was sitting on the floral sofa in the living room.

A yellow legal pad lay on her knees.

She had on a tailored beige suit and held a silver pen.

“Emily, come and sit down,” Linda said.

I stayed standing in the archway.