7. CHAPTER BREAK
… a white cord running from a wall outlet near a bookcase to a small flat rectangular object on the carpeted floor, partially concealed by a dead potted geranium. A cellphone. It had to be Gregory’s … Brock’s … my brother’s. For sure it wasn’t mine. I owned none, remember? Nor could it have belonged to my father, who had been dead for over sixteen years, and who like me never owned a cellphone. So it had to be Greg’s. Brock’s.
I’d risen from the wicker sofa, stepped over to and stood staring down at the thing as if at a copperhead or some other poisonous creature. It was an iPhone, that much I knew. I reached down and, hesitatingly, picked it up. I detached the charging cord and stood there, gripping the phone in both hands, holding it out in front of me like a priest ho
