Waited. Any minute now, her little flowered light would turn on. And weirdly, he was thirteen again, hoping she’d see it.
See him.
Darkness.
He waited longer, then turned off the light and back on again—although he didn’t know why.
Still nothing.
Strange, but maybe she was cooking.
He turned off the light, headed back down, through the house, then pulled on his boots and finally stood at the door.
Goodbye,Mom. Dad.
He took another look around, then let himself outside and closed the door.
The crunch of his feet in the snow died in the wind whipping off the lake. The temperature had dropped, so maybe another blizzard gathered in the mountains.
He followed his trail back through the woods, spotted the light beaming from her porch, beckoning.
Still no flowered light.
He drew closer and that’s when he noticed the light spilled out, not just from the lamp by the door but through theopendoor.
Did he forget to close it?
But his heart hiccupped and he took off running. Slammed up the steps.
“Harley?”
She wasn’t at the stove. No lights from the loft and ... Where was Orlando?
So maybe she took him out for a walk. He’d forgotten to do that after they’d arrived—poor guy—so, yes, Harley to the rescue again.
Except, as he turned to take off his boots, he spotted something red, a liquid oozing from the kitchen floor—
Not blood. Soup. The saucepan lay upended on the floor as if—
As if it might have been used as a weapon? Flung at someone?
“Harley!”
He ran to the door, stood on the stoop. Shouted her name again.
Nothing but darkness.
And then, a whine. Something high-pitched, urgent—
Orlando?
He turned back to the house, listened again. It came from downstairs. He opened the basement door.
Orlando sat on the steps, big eyes on him. He bled from an open welt across his snout.
Jericho crouched, caught the dog’s head. “Buddy, what happened?”
Jericho stood up, his heart thundered, even as Orlando came out of the room, went to the kitchen slowly.
