“Is the latch jammed, Dad?”
“The bolt was never turned,” he said softly.
He pushed the red door inward two inches, and warm steam hit us. It was two fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon, two hours after the county clerk handed me the final property conveyance receipt in courtroom 3B.
I stepped over the threshold, my key ring cold against my palm.
The oak floorboards yielded under my shoes. A shallow sheet of water stretched three feet from the baseboards.
“Stay on the rubber runner, Nicky,” my father said.
The steady hiss echoed down from the second floor.
In the living room, three square holes were punched into the wall beside the red brick fireplace. In a horizontal line at shoulder height, each hole was four inches wide. Plaster dust coated the dark walnut mantelpiece, the iron fire tongs, and the pine floorboards.
