At seven thirty, Jared shuffled downstairs. His sweatshirt hung loose on his frame. His phone was in his hand, his attention divided as always. The smell of breakfast caught him mid step. A crooked smile appeared on his lips.
“Well now, look at that,” he said, dragging a chair out. “Guess you finally learned not to talk back. That little slap must have worked.”
I poured coffee into his cup without looking at him. Steam curled upward. He reached for a biscuit, grinning like a child sneaking dessert before dinner. The moment his eyes lifted to the head of the table, the smile vanished.
Sitting at the head of the table was Sheriff Wallace Price, his hat resting on the chair beside him. His uniform was crisp, and his expression was firm, but not unkind. Beside him sat Reverend Amos Fletcher from First Baptist of Ashford. His hands were folded on his lap, and his gaze held a mix of sorrow and resolve. On the opposite side of the table sat my sister, Darlene Whitby, who had caught the first flight from Ohio when I called her, voice trembling, though I had not told her why.
Jared froze where he stood.
“Mom, what is this?” he asked, his voice cracking.