I took the lilies from the seat and opened the car door. I decided not to ring the bell. I had a key, and Clara always complained when I knocked like a stranger.
The spare key was exactly where it had been for twenty years, hidden under a cracked clay flowerpot by the back porch. I let myself in through the side door, stepping onto the linoleum hallway that smelled of lemon polish and stale floor wax.
“Clara?” I called out, but my voice was quiet.
I passed the closed door of Josh’s study. The brass lock was tarnished, and the keyhole was dark. I remembered the smell of his pipe tobacco that used to drift under the door frame on Saturday mornings while he worked on the family ledgers.
I cleared my throat and walked toward the kitchen. The house was warm, almost hot, the furnace humming through the floor vents with a dry, dusty heat.
