Later that evening, after another lonely dinner of leftover casserole, I sat on my front porch, reading under the porch light. It was an old Dean Koontz murder novel. Every sentence I read got forgotten as soon as I started a new one. Would Hank call tonight? We hadn’t spoken much in the last days. Hank was working out the finer details of his resume, thinking of applying for a permanent position somewhere, and still trying to figure out what to do about his father and their living situation.
I heard a bike speeding up the street and knew it was Donnie. Part of me had expected him to show up. I glanced across the street at the Lambert’s living room window—Mrs. Lambert dropped the curtains and her silhouette disappeared. She could believe what she liked. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Donn
