The Threshold of Truth

Laura sat alone in the living room as twilight turned the walls from grey to deep indigo.

The house felt cavernous and unnervingly cold. On the coffee table lay the cardboard moving boxes she had started packing two weeks ago—not because they were fleeing, but because they had planned to downsize to a small ranch house near the countryside to reduce their monthly expenses.

Her phone rang. It was her sister, urging her to pack a bag and stay across the county line until the media storm died down.

""I’m not leaving our house, Sarah,"" Laura whispered, her hand resting against her forehead. ""If I leave, it means I believe they’re right.""

The doorbell rang.

Laura froze. A cold knot twisted in her stomach. She walked cautiously to the entryway, peering through the side window.

Standing on the porch under the amber porch light was not a journalist or a police officer. It was Frank Miller, alone, holding a battered leather notebook and a paper cup of black coffee.

Laura unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open three inches, keeping the security chain engaged. ""You took him away in handcuffs in front of everyone we know, Frank. What else do you want?""

Frank took off his dark cap, holding it against his chest. In the porch light, the deep lines around his eyes looked like cracks in dried riverbed clay.