The Chest

Blue lights strobed against the white clapboard, washing the front of 11 Wexley Hill Lane in a sick, pulsing glow. Three cruisers sat at odd angles in the gravel, doors open, radios crackling. An officer lifted the tape for me as I climbed out of my car.

“Ma’am? You Elise Harrow?”

My fingers tightened around my keys. “Yes. I own this house.”

He continue reading …