Hobo was standing at the back door waiting to be let in. When she held the door open for him, he sniffed the air and cocked his head, his ears like furred antennae trolling for ghostly noises. Once he was satisfied that there was no current danger, he bounded across the threshold. He stopped for a long, noisy drink from his water bowl and then ambled over to the table where Rory was seated. He took up his usual spot at her feet, dribbling excess water on her in the process.Rory didn’t notice. She’d opened the envelope and withdrawn the five sheets of paper that were inside. When she’d first thought of contacting the Marshals Service, she’d had, as it turned out, unrealistically high hopes of finding enough information to shed light on Zeke’s killer.The man with whom she’d spoken at the local headquarters in Brooklyn had entered her name and address into his computer along with her request for a Freedom of Information application and immediately asked if she were related to a Michael McCain.
