man in a tan uniform broke away from the cluster of officers and walked toward me. He was broad-shouldered and serious, with graying temples and the kind of steady presence that makes you want to stand up straighter.
“Ma’am. Are you Ariel?”
His voice was clipped, but not unkind.
I nodded. My mouth had gone completely dry.
His eyes flicked briefly toward the neighbors watching us, then back to me.
“I’m Sheriff Holt. Would it be all right if we stepped inside for a moment?”
I held the door open, and he followed me in.
My little living room suddenly felt far too small with him standing in it. The radio clipped to his shoulder crackled with quiet static. His gaze moved slowly over the room: the framed photos on the bookshelf, the half-folded laundry still heaped on the couch, the stack of unopened mail on the side table, with
the bank’s logo peeking out from the top envelope.
“Is everything okay?” I managed.
He took off his hat and held it in both hands. That was when I knew.
“I wish I could tell you it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “Mrs. Higgins collapsed on her front porch early this morning. A neighbor out walking his dog saw her and called it in. The paramedics got there as fast as they could, but…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
“She didn’t make it,” I whispered.
My legs gave out, and I sank down onto the couch, right on top of the laundry.
Sheriff Holt nodded gently. “I’m very sorry.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth. Just yesterday, she had been holding my hand in both of hers. Just yesterday, she had told me I was a good girl. She had been fine. Tired and
