Through the small window by the front door, I saw Warren, our neighbor, working on his lawnmower in his driveway.
He wiped his hands on a grease-stained rag, looking over toward our house.
I stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, holding my breath until he turned back to his machine.
The evening was cold, the autumn wind rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window.
Nolan had been quiet all through dinner, eating his pork chop with his head down, his eyes fixed on his plate.
At nine o’clock, his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the vibration making a dull, drilling sound against the wood.
He did not answer it immediately. He waited until the third ring, then picked it up and walked toward the back door.
I stood by the sink, holding a damp dish towel, watching him through the glass of the porch door.
He closed the door firmly behind him, cutting off the draft from the yard.
