I held her.
On the driveway. Next to my Buick.
For a long time.
“Chloe,” I said. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Remember this feeling,” I said. “The one you have right now. When you knew something was wrong and you didn’t say anything.”
She nodded.
“Remember it,” I said. “So next time, you will.”
I drove to Willow Creek Lane.
The house was empty. Desert Flip had already pulled out the old carpet and some of the cabinets. There was a dumpster in the driveway.
But the porch was still there.
The swing. The square columns. The ceiling fan.
The pecan tree. The sycamores. The orange grove in the back. Twelve trees.
I parked in the driveway.
I sat in my car for a long time.
Then I got out.
I walked up the porch steps.
I sat down on the swing.
It creaked.
I took Harold’s blue mug out of my purse. Wrapped in newspaper. I unwrapped it.
