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Street, Point Pleasant was still familiar . There were differences, of course.
    Duvall’s Diner boasted a relatively new sign, and the Harpers’ Save n’ Shop had been replaced by another grocery store called Chapman’s. Abernathy’s Antiques looked the same, but there was an unfamiliar restaurant called The Grill next door. The post office had what seemed to be a relatively fresh coat of blue paint, which complimented the red brickwork of Carmichael’s Pharmacy to its left. The library and Sheriff’s Department had been completely rebuilt, though; the buildings stood in modern contrast to the quaint, old-fashioned feel that the rest of the town emanated.
    Town Hall loomed tall and pale with its columnated portico and high clock tower. The stone fountain in the middle of the picturesque square at the center of Main Street bubbled like a lazy brook. The square itself was lined with white birch trees bearing golden leaves and appeared as well-manicured as ever.
    The ‘ Welcome to Point Pleasant ’ sign listed the population at 4,637. Point Pleasant was small in contrast to a city like Boston, but the town suddenly seemed larger than Ben remembered from his youth. He smiled to himself at the rest of the sign as he sped past: ‘ We’re Mighty Pleased to Have You! ’
    We’ll see about that. 
    Ben’s seatbelt felt uncomfortably tight. The journey had taken a little over thirteen hours. He left Boston at six o’clock in the morning after a fitful night of sleep. He had packed his freshly laundered clothes and hit the road before his resolve could shift and he reconsidered the notion of returning to his hometown.
    When he pulled the Camaro up to his childhood home just after seven o’clock in the evening, Ben put the car into gear and sat with his hands on the steering wheel for a full minute before he finally killed the engine, climbed out, and breathed in the scent of burning leaves on the otherwise fresh air. The black Ford Expedition in the driveway signaled that Andrew was home.
    The lawn was mown, but the flowerbeds were vacant. The cherry tree that grew in the westernmost corner of the yard showed signs of a recent pruning; it always bloomed in the spring. As it was late October, Ben wondered if the apple tree in the backyard was still there and if its branches were weighted down by its seasonal yield of the tart green apples that his mother used to bake into pies.
    The house itself was as pristine as the front lawn. Andrew Wisehart was a military man; he had served in Vietnam as a field surgeon where he took a shot to the hip while tending to a wounded soldier. His career in army greens had been cut short due to his subsequent limp, but the rigid training lingered in his general philosophy. There was a place for everything so that everything could be in its place.
    Andrew had always—quite literally—presented his best foot forward to the world, and this included the appearance of his home. The week after Caroline died, Andrew saw to it that the hedges were trimmed and that the interior and exterior of the house received a new coat of paint after the smoke damage had been cleared.
    Ben and Kate had helped, of course. Kate had flown down from Boston upon the news of her mother’s death. Andrew cried once that week, only once. He blamed himself with the misguided notion that with all his medical expertise, he should have recognized the signs of the ticking time bomb in his wife’s brain. Ben knew that his father’s desire to have the house restored to its initial beauty was not a result of his anal-retentive need for order. Rather, it was his tribute to his dead wife and the home she had helped create for their family.
    Ben followed the cobblestone walkway to the front door, which had been painted red at some point in the last thirteen years. Caroline would have approved of the way the shade of scarlet accented the yellow exterior of the three-story American Craftsman.
    He took a moment to adjust his suit