The knock on my front door comes twenty minutes later, after I hear the police cruiser crunching over my gravel driveway.
I dash to the door from where I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for the sheriff to arrive. In my haste, I nearly stumble over the edge of the old worn Oriental rug Russ bought me for our first anniversary. My fingers fumble along the deadbolt as if opening a door is new to me, and I unlock it to find Sheriff Erickson standing on my threshold, his muddy brown eyes heavy with exhaustion.
The jack o’ lantern burns brightly behind him on the railing of my porch. He looks as dog-tired as I feel, but he tosses me a wink anyway. The specks of grey hair at his temples make him look distinguished.
He smiles weakly.
My knees feel like Jell-O beneath me. My grip
