FIFTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD Sally Rutherford stretched, yawned, and turned off her television at eight-thirty.
She took her plate and glass to the sink, washed them and set them in the drainboard to dry. She was just about to turn off the lights and head to her bedroom to read a bit when she heard what sounded like a knock on her front door.
Her eight-year-old bulldog, Cyrus, lifted his head, sniffed the air and began to growl.
“Oh, shush,” she scolded. “It’s probably nothing.”
Still, Sally was nervous enough to tremble slightly as she made her way over to the front door. It wasn’t until she had her hand on the doorknob that she decided grabbing Allen’s old pistol might be a good idea.
After all, I’m out here by myself since he passed. Probably ought to have it with me, just in case.
She tur
