The water was already running when I opened the front door.
Not dripping.
Running.
I stood on the porch with my key still in the lock, listening to it rush somewhere inside the house. A steady, heavy hiss, like a shower left on in an empty hotel room.
Before I took another step, I knew Brian had left me something to find.
“Brian?” I called.
Silence.
Just the water.
I should tell you that I almost didn’t come that day. I sat in my car at the end of the driveway for twenty minutes first, with the engine running and both hands on the wheel, looking at the house.
It was a pale yellow two-story with white shutters and a red front door. I picked that door color. Brian said red was “a lot.” I said a house should look like somebody happy lives there. He rolled his eyes, but he painted it anyway, one Saturday in April, eight years ago, while I held the ladder and handed him things and we argued about whether the radio should play country or classic rock.
