The townhouse in DC was sticky and hot. Every window in every room was wide with nothing but the screens to hold back the summer breeze. If there’d been one. Which there was not. The a/c, Henry had told him, was “down for the count” and wouldn’t be up and running until the servicemen at whatever shop Henry had found fit to call were “good and ready to fit them into the schedule.” That was all right with Lyle. The heat would dissipate come nightfall, and what happened during daylight hours rarely gave Lyle pause.
UPS had made good on their advertised promises, and the boxes of clothing, books, and memorabilia had beat Lyle to DC. They stood in the corner of his bedroom—Randy’s old room—and Lyle had been given the time and distance to make himself at home. Mary was already on the phone pull
