“I am taking him home,” I said.
“He needs supervision,” Robert said. He rubbed his palms against his thighs. “He fell down in the garden yesterday. We had to carry him inside.”
I stepped closer to him, blocking his path to the driver’s side door.
“These marks did not come from an accidental fall, Robert,” I said.
Robert did not answer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, his fingers shaking so hard they clattered against the metal door frame.
“We are just trying to keep things in order,” he muttered.
He unlocked the door and got inside without looking back.
The sound of Robert’s car engine cranking as he drives away without looking back.
The lock clicked into place as I turned the deadbolt, the sound echoing through the empty hallway. I turned back toward the center of my father’s brick ranch house on Elm Lane, where the hallway radiator hummed its low, rhythmic vibration through the floorboards.
