I stood by the window and watched his old sedan back down the driveway, the exhaust white against the autumn fog.
At nine o’clock, I went out to the back porch, the damp grass soaking through the canvas of my slip-on shoes.
The soil along the edge of the foundation was soft and black, covered in a thin layer of moss.
Just beneath Emma’s bedroom window, the dirt was torn.
There were three distinct boot prints pressed deep into the muddy earth, pointing directly toward the low sill.
They were wide, heavy prints, the exact tread of the work boots Evan kept on the shoe rack by the back door.
I knelt in the wet grass, my fingers touching the cold edge of the deepest footprint.
The kitchen door had not opened last night, and the floorboards in the hallway had not groaned.
I held the cold plastic clock in my hand, staring at the numbers that did not match any schedule he had ever told me about.
By two o’clock that afternoon, the white clock was locked in my glove compartment, and I was standing in the fluorescent glare of the electronics counter on Stark Street.
