He picked up a dish towel, his hands shaking. “Who needs old people anyway?” he whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. He began to clear the first plate when a sound stopped him.
It wasn’t a car door. It was a knock.
It wasn’t the polite, rhythmic knock of a neighbor. This was a heavy, authoritative thud that rattled the doorframe.
When Arthur opened it, he wasn’t greeted by his son or daughter. He was staring at the badges of two police officers.
“Arthur Patterson?” the older officer asked.
“Yes?”
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