The woods pressed close against the driveway, their branches weaving a low ceiling that blocked the stars. Raymond walked with his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders square under his wool coat. Every few steps, he would glance back, not at me, but at Leo, who was struggling to keep his balance on the wet stones.
“He has Julian’s gait,” Raymond said, his voice cutting through the dark. “A bit heavy on the heels.”
“He is tired,” I said, my voice clipping the air. “We have been traveling since noon.”
“Of course,” Raymond said, his voice dropping into that smooth, comforting cadence he used when he wanted to settle an argument before it started. “We have a warm supper waiting. Martha made the chicken stew Julian used to ask for.”
I did not answer. The mention of Julian’s name felt like a weight, heavy and misplaced in Raymond’s mouth.
“Did you have any trouble with the connection in Boston?” Raymond asked.
“None,” I said.
“Good. We expected you three hours ago.” He reached the heavy oak door and pushed it open without knocking or checking for a key.
