Claire Harrison’s scream cut through the crisp November air like a kitchen knife. Emily froze, the wooden spoon in her manicured hand suspended mid-motion above the slop bucket. Every ounce of color drained from her face, the perfect contour and highlight suddenly looking like cheap theater makeup.
The backyard went dead silent. No crows in the oaks, no hum of the interstate in the distance, just the ragged breathing of Grandma Ruth on her knees beside the trash cans and the hammer of Jackson Harrison’s heart as he stood at the gate in his funeral-black suit, tie askew from the red-eye flight out of Seattle.
In his hand was a bouquet of white lilies he’d grabbed at Dulles—flowers meant for his mother. One by one the petals slipped through his fingers and fluttered down into the puddle of greasy runoff leaking from the outdoor drain. He couldn’t process what he was seeing.