A radio was playing somewhere inside. George Strait, low and scratchy. The whole place smelled like fresh cut pine and paint.I stood at the edge of the gravel drive in my good shoes and my good blouse, the one with the little blue buttons, and I couldn’t make my feet go any farther.My son had told me what I would find out here. A wife, maybe. A girlfriend. A man with something to hide, who wanted his hands on my dead husband’s insurance money.I’d driven forty minutes on back roads to prove him wrong. Or to prove him right. By then I honestly didn’t know which one I was more afraid of.
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