CHAPTER 7
When I pulled into his dirt driveway, Schulz was kneeling on the ground. Despite the weblike layer of new snow, he was spading soil energetically by the irregular flagstone walk that led to his front door.
“Hi there.” I climbed carefully out of the Rover with the loaf of Irish bread. The image of the fallen deer still haunted me: I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.
He turned and stood. Clods of wet soil clung to his jeans and jacket. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, please finish what you’re doing. I just—” My voice wobbled. Damn. The words were tumbling out; I was shaking my head, appalled at how shaken I was. “I just saw a dead animal by the side of the road and it reminded me … no, no, please,” I said as he started to move toward me. “Please finish what you were doing.”
