She stood in the entrance of the immaculate kitchen with her hands on her hips. She nodded to herself, took out a dishrag and disinfectant, and started scrubbing. She scrubbed vigorously, fist clenching the towel, other hand gripping the end of the counter. And then she shifted over and scrubbed the spot where her hand had left an imaginary print. “I’m going to see Decker,” I said. She didn’t stop scrubbing. His car was in the driveway, but nobody answered the door. I huddled against the door frame and glanced around. Then I jogged to the side of the house and brushed the snow off the base of the tallest evergreen. I dug out the gray-and-black speckled rock and pried the spare key from the hard-packed dirt. I let myself in the house and called, “Decker?” His name echoed back from the hardwood floors and bare walls. His room was the same as mine, up the stairs, second door on the left. I knocked but got no answer.
