Chapter 3
Fifteen minutes later, a mile and a half from the police station, I reach Pickard Street by foot and stare across the street at my former house. A place filled with the happy memories of five years. The face of my ex-boyfriend, Russ, flickers in my mind like a restored old photograph coming into focus. My heart collapses in my chest. I lean up against a sagging spruce.
I see Russ and me sitting at the breakfast table, our hands intertwined, our minds deep in thought; Russ reads the morning paper; I puzzle over Sudoku.
Every morning, without fail, he would rise an hour earlier than me and serve me coffee—or tea—in bed. I stare up at the second floor of the now-unkempt house, and see Russ standing in the doorway of our bedroom, holding two mugs and smiling. Most days, all year r
