The young officer stepped out of his car, his leather duty belt creaking as he walked toward the front porch. He was holding a roll of yellow plastic tape in his left hand.
“The detective said nobody goes inside yet, Mrs. Miller,” he said.
“I only need to get Noah some dry clothes and my purse from the kitchen counter,” I said, my hand hovering near the brass doorknob.
“I can go in and grab a bag for you, but that is all,” Gable said. He pulled a small pocket knife from his belt to cut a length of the yellow tape.
Through the glass pane of the back door, the kitchen looked exactly as we had left it, except for the two blue plates still sitting on the wooden table.
On the laminate counter beside the sink, the silver-plated pocket watch my father had given me sat face up, its glass scratched. It was supposed to be in the drawer by the pantry.
“Who put my father’s watch on the counter?” I asked.
Officer Gable did not answer. He pressed the sticky yellow tape across the doorframe, sealing the lock under a bright warning.
My sister Leah’s dining table was covered in bank statements and yellow legal pads. She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses twice before she sat down, her fingers twitching near her collar.
“Daniel’s business account is overdrawn by twenty-two thousand dollars, Clara,” she said, her voice rising in a quick, anxious rhythm. “The suppliers put a lien on his flatbed truck last Tuesday.”
“He told me the kitchen remodel was fully paid,” I said, sitting on the edge of the wooden chair.
“He lied to you,” Leah said. She reached into a manila folder and pulled out a photocopy of a three-page document from the county credit union. “And he did not just stop with the business accounts.”
Noah was sitting on the stairs in the hall, his head resting against the wooden banister, watching us through the spindles.
