The envelope tucked under the gold wedding invitation had no return address, only my name in blue ballpoint.
I spotted it before the invitation, which says a lot, because the invitation had Megan Whitfield and Kyle Brandt on the front and a date eight weeks away.
My boots tracked red dust across the kitchen tile.
I had been under a rooftop unit at the Miller place since two, and my shirt pocket still held two copper fittings because I’d forgotten to put them back in the van.
The invitation was
