“. . Alan Christoffersen’s diary Returning to an empty house was harder than I thought it would be. Could be. It seemed the pain increased as I got closer. Two blocks from the house, I almost hyperventilated. I got mad at myself. “Pull yourself together, man.” My father had already gone home. He left a note for me on the kitchen table. It just read: “Eight o’clock flight. Call when you can.” I walked through the house, not sure what I was supposed to do. Not that there weren’t things to do. The ...house was a disaster. There were dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hampers, fast-food sacks and wrappers on the counters. There were still piles of unopened mail and newspapers inside the door. At first I lay down, but I couldn’t find relief, so I set to washing clothes. As I lifted one of McKale’s undershirts, I held it against my face. I could still smell her. That afternoon the postman came to my door. He held a clipboard and a registered letter. “You need to sign for this,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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