The third drawer of my mother’s sideboard was swollen shut, and a gray film of dust covered the lace runner. In the middle of the dining table sat a cold pot of roast beef that nobody had touched.
We had arrived in Oakhaven just before dark, the loose muffler of my rusty gray Buick scraping against the damp gravel of the driveway. The house looked exactly as it had ten years ago, only the white paint on the porch had begun to peel in long, thin strips that gathered on the steps.
My ten-year-old son, Leo, sat very still in the chair next to me, his fingers twisting the hem of his blue striped shirt. He kept his eyes on the heavy silver fork in his hand, occasionally glancing up at the darkened window that looked out toward the empty street.
My father sat opposite us, his broad shoulders hunched forward. He was sixty-eight now, but his frame looked smaller, swallowed by an old wool cardigan that smelled of stale tobacco and cold grease.
He held a small, square photograph by the edges, his hands shaking so violently the paper clicked against the rim of his water glass.
I reached down under the table and touched the strap of my purse, feeling the hard square outline of the black flash drive hidden inside the zippered pocket. My parents had no idea it was there, and I wanted to keep it that way until I knew what the files contained.
“Richard, please put that away,” my mother said, her voice barely a whisper. She pressed her right palm flat against her chest and looked down at her empty plate.
My father did not look up, his eyes locked on the image. He rubbed his forehead with his right thumb, his skin dry and papery in the yellow dining light.
“Who is this?” he asked. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like dry leaves scraping on cement.
I leaned forward, my fingers instinctively finding the small silver pendant of my necklace. I rubbed the smooth metal back and forth between my fingers, trying to steady my voice.