He wrote down number 418 on the line for his badge. I looked at the silver metal shield pinned to his chest, which clearly read 481.
I did not correct him. I took the pink carbon copy of the form he handed me and folded it into my pocket.
“We will have our own specialist look at this,” I said.
“That is your option,” Davis said, his voice flat.
I walked my father through the double glass doors of the station. The autumn air was cold, carrying the sharp scent of damp leaves and car exhaust from the highway.
My brother Robert was standing near his green Buick LeSabre, his fingers nervously checking his coat pockets.
Vanessa was already in the passenger seat, her face pressed against the glass of the window.
“Clara,” Robert said, his voice a low mumble. He did not look at my face, choosing instead to stare at the gravel near my boots. “We did not expect you to come down here tonight.”
