looking for Robert Torrelson. Is this the right place?”
The young man nodded without changing his expression. “Yeah, he lives here. That’s my dad.”
“Is he in?”
“You with the bank?”
Paul shook his head. “No. My name is Paul Flanner.”
It was a moment before the young man recognized the name. His eyes narrowed.
“The doctor?”
Paul nodded. “Your father sent me a letter saying he wanted to speak to me.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t tell me about no letter.” As he spoke, the muscles in his jaw began to clench.
“Can you tell him I’m here?”
The young man hooked his thumb into his belt. “He’s not in.”
As he said it, his eyes flashed to the house, and Paul wondered if he was telling the truth.
“Will you at least tell him I came by? I left a note on the door telling him where he can reach me.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Paul dropped his gaze, then looked up again.
“I think that’s for him to decide, don’t you?” he said.
“Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can come here and try to talk your way out of what you did? Like it was
just some mistake or something?”
Paul said nothing. Sensing his hesitation, the young man took a step toward him and went on, his voice rising.
“Just get the hell out of here! I don’t want you around here anymore, and my dad doesn’t, either!”
“Fine… okay….”
The young man reached for a nearby shovel and Paul raised his hands, backing away.
“I’m going….”
He turned and started toward the car.
“And don’t come back,” the young man shouted. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? My mother’s dead because of you!”
Paul flinched at the words, feeling their sting, then got in the car. After starting the engine, he pulled away without looking
back.
He didn’t see the neighbor come down from the ladder to speak with the young man; he didn’t see the young man throw the shovel.
He didn’t see the living room curtain fall back into place inside the house.
Nor did he see the front door open or the wrinkled hand that retrieved the note after it had fallen to the porch.
Minutes later, Adrienne was listening to Paul as he recounted what had happened. They were in the kitchen, and Paul was leaning
against the counter, his arms crossed as he gazed out the window. His expression was blank, withdrawn; he looked far more
tired than he had earlier in the morning. When he finished, Adrienne’s face showed a mixture of sympathy and concern.
“At least you tried,” she said.
“A lot of good that did, huh?”
“Maybe he didn’t know about his father’s letter.”
Paul shook his head. “It’s not just that. It goes back to the whole reason I came here. I wanted to see if I could fix it
somehow or at least make it understandable, but I’m not even going to get the chance.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Then why does it feel that way?”
In the silence that followed, Adrienne could hear the ticking of the heater.
“Because you care. Because you’ve changed.”
“Nothing’s changed. They still think I killed her.” He sighed. “Can you imagine how it feels to know that someone believes
that about you?”
“No,” she admitted, “I can’t. I’ve never had to go through something like that.”
Paul nodded, looking drawn.
Adrienne watched to see if his expression would change, and when it didn’t, she surprised herself by moving toward him and
reaching for his hand. It was stiff at first, but he relaxed and she felt his fingers curl into hers.
“As hard as it is to accept, and no matter what anyone says,” she said carefully, “you have to understand that even if you
had talked to the father this morning, you probably wouldn’t have changed his son’s mind. He’s hurting, and it’s easier to
blame someone like you than to accept the fact that his mother’s time had come. And no matter how you think it
The young man nodded without changing his expression. “Yeah, he lives here. That’s my dad.”
“Is he in?”
“You with the bank?”
Paul shook his head. “No. My name is Paul Flanner.”
It was a moment before the young man recognized the name. His eyes narrowed.
“The doctor?”
Paul nodded. “Your father sent me a letter saying he wanted to speak to me.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t tell me about no letter.” As he spoke, the muscles in his jaw began to clench.
“Can you tell him I’m here?”
The young man hooked his thumb into his belt. “He’s not in.”
As he said it, his eyes flashed to the house, and Paul wondered if he was telling the truth.
“Will you at least tell him I came by? I left a note on the door telling him where he can reach me.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
Paul dropped his gaze, then looked up again.
“I think that’s for him to decide, don’t you?” he said.
“Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can come here and try to talk your way out of what you did? Like it was
just some mistake or something?”
Paul said nothing. Sensing his hesitation, the young man took a step toward him and went on, his voice rising.
“Just get the hell out of here! I don’t want you around here anymore, and my dad doesn’t, either!”
“Fine… okay….”
The young man reached for a nearby shovel and Paul raised his hands, backing away.
“I’m going….”
He turned and started toward the car.
“And don’t come back,” the young man shouted. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? My mother’s dead because of you!”
Paul flinched at the words, feeling their sting, then got in the car. After starting the engine, he pulled away without looking
back.
He didn’t see the neighbor come down from the ladder to speak with the young man; he didn’t see the young man throw the shovel.
He didn’t see the living room curtain fall back into place inside the house.
Nor did he see the front door open or the wrinkled hand that retrieved the note after it had fallen to the porch.
Minutes later, Adrienne was listening to Paul as he recounted what had happened. They were in the kitchen, and Paul was leaning
against the counter, his arms crossed as he gazed out the window. His expression was blank, withdrawn; he looked far more
tired than he had earlier in the morning. When he finished, Adrienne’s face showed a mixture of sympathy and concern.
“At least you tried,” she said.
“A lot of good that did, huh?”
“Maybe he didn’t know about his father’s letter.”
Paul shook his head. “It’s not just that. It goes back to the whole reason I came here. I wanted to see if I could fix it
somehow or at least make it understandable, but I’m not even going to get the chance.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Then why does it feel that way?”
In the silence that followed, Adrienne could hear the ticking of the heater.
“Because you care. Because you’ve changed.”
“Nothing’s changed. They still think I killed her.” He sighed. “Can you imagine how it feels to know that someone believes
that about you?”
“No,” she admitted, “I can’t. I’ve never had to go through something like that.”
Paul nodded, looking drawn.
Adrienne watched to see if his expression would change, and when it didn’t, she surprised herself by moving toward him and
reaching for his hand. It was stiff at first, but he relaxed and she felt his fingers curl into hers.
“As hard as it is to accept, and no matter what anyone says,” she said carefully, “you have to understand that even if you
had talked to the father this morning, you probably wouldn’t have changed his son’s mind. He’s hurting, and it’s easier to
blame someone like you than to accept the fact that his mother’s time had come. And no matter how you think it
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