behind me.
The autumn air was cold and damp in the parking lot. I stood by the door of my old Buick, the keys heavy in my hand, looking at the yellow neon sign of the diner buzzing in the dark. The betrayal was not just Harold’s, and it was not just Brenda’s; it had reached all the way to my own kitchen table.
The glass door of Oakridge Realty was cold continue reading …
