CHAPTER THIRTY
The old boards creaked in greeting as I stepped up onto the porch. I reached under the porcelain rabbit that had once held a healthy fern - now nothing more than a pot of dirt - but the key was still there.
Shreds of screening still stubbornly clung to the door as a reminder of the night my father crashed into it and ripped it out of its metal frame. When I stepped inside, I felt a great sense of satisfaction to see that everything was pretty much the same. The smell of cigarettes lingered in the air, and the living room was strewn with paperwork and anything else that had been left where it was last used.
As I walked down the hallway into the kitchen, I heard a familiar voice, "Who's there?"
"Hi, Dad," I smiled. He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coff
