I made tea with the little in-room kettle and carried the cup onto the balcony in my coat. I stood there a long time thinking about Winston, about Peter, about the boy who used to race ahead on the boardwalk collecting smooth stones and pieces of rope he believed could be useful someday.
The more I thought, the less this looked like a thoughtless family overstep.
Peter knew I kept that house like a chapel. Peter knew I had texted him three days earlier saying I was arriving Friday. He had answered with a thumbs-up.
That question kept me awake until dawn.
The next morning I dressed carefully. Dark slacks, wool sweater, the camel coat Winston used to say made me look like a woman who knew things. I put on lipstick though I rarely bothered with it in winter. Then I drove back to the house.
My key did not fit the front door.
