Anne sat beside Evan on the couch in his living room, trying not to stare at Mr. Griffith. He’d charged right through the house without saying a word, staying in the kitchen for a long time. He’d only staggered back out when the paramedics arrived with grim faces, soft voices, and a stretcher piled up with all kinds of equipment she didn’t recognize.
Evan’s father had paced for a few minutes, still without speaking. Anne was terrified he would walk right to that closet and look for his gun, even with her sitting there. He’d glanced at the door every time he passed by, but he made no move to open it.
Once he finally sat in his favorite recliner across from them, her fear only worsened. Mr. Griffith stared at the coffee table between them, as if he was deeply offended by the piles of books
