A doorbell rings in a three-storey brick home where a wrought-iron fence protects the yard from unwanted visitors. A man in a camel coat stands nervously under the porch light. The door opens, revealing a thin woman in a navy pant suit, smoking a cigarette. The man stutters, “Isobel, I’m so …”
She opens the door wider to allow him to enter. “Duncan,” she says. “So good of you to come all the way from New Zealand.” The sarcasm in her voice drips like blood. “But then again, your only son is dead.” She disappears down the hallway, muttering, “At least he was the only son the last I heard.”
Unsure of what to do, the man removes his overcoat, hanging it on a hook in the hall. He follows into the living room where she sits stiffly in an antique armchair. Her legs are crossed; one foot bounces
