Chapter 97

There are two cars in front of the store—one an aging rust-colored pickup that I remember from my youth, the owner’s car. The other is a newer model Saturn in a light mauve, polished to reflect the meager sunlight the way fog throws back the glare of oncoming headlights. New York plates, that stops me. Someone passing through, or a relative of mine? I don’t remember seeing the car in front of Aunt Evie’s, but that doesn’t mean anything. My mind has been spun out in a million different directions since the phone call Saturday night—I’m not the most coherent person right at this moment. I could’ve parked behind this car when I first got here, I wouldn’t know it. Maybe it’s Sylvia, just getting into town, and she stopped at Grosso’s first before heading to the house.