Nov/Dec 2015 • Vol. XXXVII No. 6 FictionNovember 1, 2015 |

Sorry

The roads were lightly iced when Tom Lahey and I pulled up at dawn to the vacant lot on Lily Lane. It had snowed earlier, three or four inches of uncommonly wet snow that blanketed the ground and clung to the pine boughs. The neighbor who had found her body was outside with patrol officers. Pete Magro, his name was, a thirty-two-year-old combat veteran whose ex-wife and mine worked together at the university. I knew him slightly. Lahey and I spoke with him at his kitchen table. He had woken up with a bad feeling about her, he told us. He couldn't explain why, except for the general worry he felt about her situation. It was barely light when he went looking. He saw a hand in the snow before he noticed the red boot prints, growing fainter, in a trail that led from the vacant lot to and beyond the front yard of the house on the other side. At a distance he spotted the curved, stained blade of a machete, and from outside the shanty's small opening he glimpsed the victim's face and h

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The roads were lightly iced when Tom Lahey and I pulled up at dawn to the vacant lot on Lily Lane. It had snowed earlier, three or four inches of […]

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