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alone.
    Murder. I shuddered. The word was ugly. The deed unimaginable. And the police believed Marilyn committed the action . Because of the evidence found. I slapped the traitorous thought away. Marilyn was my friend. Just because someone could’ve done something—had the motive to do something—didn’t actually mean they did it.
    My ex-husband Adam, technically my never-was-husband, flashed into my mind. We can only think we know someone. Secrets and hidden agendas lurked inside everyone.
    I stood and paced around the living room, avoiding the dining room I had turned into a scrapbooking area.  Seeing my cropping tools and photo cast-offs littering the floor only reminded me of Michael’s murder and Marilyn’s arrest. 
    My gaze settled on the worn yellow-tinged chair in the corner of the room. An aged blue and yellow hand crocheted afghan was draped over the arm. The blanket Grandpa Tom would tuck around me as he told me stories about him and Grandma Hope and their son, my dad.
    Growing up, I sighed at the romantic story of how two best friends meet and fell in love with two best friends. I loved looking at the pictures of the double wedding ceremony and always wished I could’ve seen it. The story continued years later when the only children of these two couples fell in love and got married. Two loving families merged into one. My grandparents celebrated by purchasing a three-family townhouse unit. The houses my grandmothers still owned. They lived in one unit together and rented out the other two, one to Steve and the other to me.
    I picked up a framed photograph of my parents and me taken a week before they left for a three-week mission trip to China. The plane crashed before they left the United States, killing all on board. 
    Still holding the picture, I settled myself into the worn chair, tucking my feet under me. Even though Grandpa Tom died seven years ago, three months after his best friend and my other grandfather, Joseph, died, I could still smell his pine-scented aftershave. I joined the military right after my grandfathers’ deaths. Wanted to see the world. And run away from the grief and fear that my grandmothers would follow their beloved husbands into the afterlife. I wanted to be nowhere around to witness it.
    It’s A Small World chimed through the house and I cringed. I picked that doorbell chime because of the whimsy and cheerful nature of the song. Today it felt silly and childlike. No wonder my grandmothers forgot that I was a grown-up.
    I walked over and wrapped my hand around the doorknob. I paused. What if Detective Roget decided he had more questions—or accusations—for me?
    “Faith?” My name in the form of question floated through the door. Steve.
    I pulled the door open. Steve balanced a casserole dish and a plastic bowl in his hands. “Your grandmothers sent over some dinner.”
    “I’m not hungry.” I started to close the door.
    “Your grandmothers are watching.”
    I tugged the door back open and stepped outside. Hope and Cheryl wiggled their fingers at me then scooted back into their house. If I didn’t let him in, one of them would be over before Steve made it home.
    Sighing, I stepped aside. I did have some anger building up and I’d rather use it on him than my grandmothers. I loved and adored them, but they always smothered.
    Steve offered an apologetic smile. “I tried getting out if it, but they seemed determined. I told them I hadn’t ate and promised to join you.”
    “I don’t want company.”
    “I know. And I actually already ate. I can sneak out the back if you like.” He flashed a grin. “They’d never expect me to lie to them.”
    “Fine. You can stay. For now.” 
    I walked to the kitchen, but with each step I took, a voice in my head said I was making a huge mistake. I felt unbalanced by the events of the day. I might let my guard down and lean on Steve. A dangerous activity since my treacherous heart was looking for one hint it could latch onto