Mr. Hanley’s warning was still in my ear when headlights swept across the kitchen wall. A car door slammed. Heavy footsteps crossed the porch, and the back door shook under a fist. “Mom, open up,” Brandon called, his voice strained. “I know Judith is with you. We need to talk about some papers.”
I had told him I was alone. Judith’s face turned white as she mouthed, how does he know? Mr. Hanley whispered through the phone, “Do not open that door, Mrs. Whitfield.” Then a key scraped into the lock. Only one spare key existed, and my husband had given it to our son years ago. The knob turned slowly, the hinges groaned, and my own son stepped into the dark kitchen holding a thick folder.
