I let Elio park his truck on the far end of the driveway so not to leave tire tracks on the soil. I don't want anyone to know someone had been on their property despite months, if not years, of the little farmhouse remained unattended.
"Don't tell me you made me drive us out here so you can kill me," Elio comments as we exit his truck.
I don't answer him, like the other two times he's asked me that question.
It was a good half-hour drive just to the outskirts of Ridgewood Bay and the quiet air was creepy to an extent that made you not want to walk alone on the cold road.
I've lost count how many times I've driven down this road with a chill running up my spine, but this was better than spending nights at Charlie's house anxiously awaiting the day he'd finally knock down the basement do
