Leaving Clifford’s house felt like retreating from a tomb. The mother’s sorrow was a palpable entity that followed them out the door, clinging to their clothes and filling the car with its melancholic scent. There was nothing more to be gleaned from her; she was a well of grief, not information. The real source, however reluctant, was back at the precinct, waiting in a sterile interrogation room.
The drive was a silent, mutual processing of the familial tragedy. Claire stared out the window, the passing cityscape a blur. “That house,” she murmured, breaking the quiet. “All those photos… it was a museum to a war no one won.”
Davon grunted, his hands tightening on the wheel. “A war Clifford decided to keep fighting even after his sister was dead. He doesn’t get to play the grieving brother
