The interior smelled of dust, cedar, and something faintly floral. A quilt lay folded over the back of a sofa. Several framed photographs stood on a shelf, most showing Douglas at different ages with his parents and younger brother.
I moved toward one of them.
Douglas was perhaps ten years old, standing beside a boy of six. His younger brother’s hand was wrapped around his wrist.
“His brother,” Lucas said.
“What was his name?”
“Andrew.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died when he was eight.”
I touched the edge of the frame.
“That was why your grandmother became ill?”
“She never recovered from it.”
“And your father blamed himself?”
Lucas nodded.
“He was supposed to be watching Andrew that afternoon. He was twelve. They were near the lake, and Andrew fell in. Dad tried to pull him out.”
The words were simple, but Lucas’s face showed how often the family had repeated them.
