I backed out onto Maple Street without looking at the brick ranch house in the rearview mirror.
The radiator in my living room hissed, a steady stream of dry heat rising against the yellowed wallpaper of my small apartment. Noah sat on the edge of my kitchen table, his heavy work boots hooked around the bottom rung of the stool.
He had not taken off his canvas jacket, and the smell of industrial grease from the machine shop hung in the small room, mixing with the scent of my radiator steam.
“She was talking about a twenty-year plan, Noah,” I said, clearing my throat before I spoke. “She told Grandma Ruth that Elena didn’t run away.”
Noah did not move. He rubbed his temples with both thumbs, his eyes fixed on the salt shaker between us.
“Clara exaggerates,” Noah said. “She always has.”
“She said Elena died in a hospice,” I said, tapping my index finger against my right knee. “She said she took the money to buy the brick house.”
