chapter 6
Drew leaned against one of the ionic pillars just outside of the entrance of Evans Funeral Home, sheathed in the inert smoke of his Marlboro 27. The building was Geraldine Evans’ estate built in the nineteenth century. It sat atop the hill on Jacob’s Landing, and from where Drew stood, he could see Chesapeake Bay, maybe two miles in front of him. It served as a quiet, somewhat contemplative distraction for many of Evans’ visitors, whether they smoked or not. Those who came to pay their last respects left with a little bit more than what they came there for, and Drew would be no different.
A single lane of tarmac wound its way around the hills below him; the only road to and from the estate. Drew watched the stream of cars carrying former students, colleagues, and even old colle
