A three AM phone call about a locked room changed everything

sharp and dry. Mia had her hands pulled deep into the sleeves of her oversized gray sweater, watching her sister scrape a broken stick through the dirt to mark the squares. I opened the back door, the wood swollen from the damp autumn air, and walked down the three wooden steps.

“Dad is down at the Pine Crest Motel,” Mia said, not looking up from her continue reading …