Sadly, of the two of us, Grant, with this knowledge of all stupid s**t, naturally fell into the role of Vic’s right-hand man.
As I returned to pacing the floor and Vic pored over the blueprints and house records he had printed earlier, Grant made stakes and strung garlic, and prepped a canvas backpack he’d brought with him.
It wasn’t that I wanted to be whittling stakes. Would it be called whittling? Whittling sounded too non-threatening, didn’t it? Sharpening was definitely a better word to use.
It wasn’t that I wanted to be sharpening stakes; I just wanted to feel like I was helping, and I needed to get my mind off that framed print.
Seeing Marcus Gråsson in a photograph that had to be close to fifty years old, yet looking just the same, had reminded me of all those Chicago stories a
