The Dishonored Dead
““Mom? What’s wrong?”
They sat at the kitchen table, Kyle with a bowl of cereal in front of him, Denise a glass of gray juice.
“Just finish your breakfast,” she said. “You don’t want to be late for your bus.”
Above them a door opened, closed. More frantic footsteps. They moved out of the bedroom, into the hallway, and she took this as her cue to get up.
“Mom?”
Ignoring Kyle, she went to the sink. She stood there and stared out the window at the bird feeder on the deck. No birds converged around the feeder this morning—there weren’t even any squirrels—but a butterfly caught her eye, a gray flitting shape flapping its way across the lawn.
Conrad’s footsteps hurried down the stairs. They paused. Then they started up again, now headed toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Dad,” Kyle said, but Conrad didn’t answer. He went straight to the basement door, opened it, hurried down the steps. Moments later he was back, holding a case at his side, staring across the kitchen at Denise.
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