It was after midnight and bitterly cold. There was fresh salt on the street in preparation for the slick roads which awaited the early morning commuters. It was dark and only a couple of houses had their porch lights on, which made the street look dreary. For a moment, he wondered if everyone was mourning Rachel’s death. He parked alongside Janelle’s light blue Volkswagen Bug. His tiny house was a two-story brownstone in Portland, Maine. Built in 1939, it was tucked away on a traditional, residential street just north of the Fore River. Ben had lived there since he left Austin. He had fallen in love with it immediately because of its charm and proximity to the water. It had belonged to an older woman who lived there most of her life. Ben was able to buy it at a reasonable price because it hadn’t been updated and needed some repairs. The house creaked and cracked when there was inclement weather, and the old hardwood floors were badly worn, but Ben loved it anyway.
