At 4:37 p.m. his black SUV came out of the lot.
I followed two cars back the whole way, which I learned from television and which apparently is correct.
Forty-One Minutes Later He Turned Onto a Road I Knew, and My Hands Went Numb on the Wheel
Lakewood. Next county over. A quiet street of small rentals with a chain-link fence around a shared yard and one of those plastic storage sheds in back.
He parked. He got out with two paper grocery sacks from a store I don’t carry anything from.
And the front door of that house opened.
And a woman came out onto the little concrete porch and laughed and took one of the bags out of his hands.
I Sat in That Truck and Watched a Woman I Had Mourned for Seven Years Carry Groceries Into a House
Her hair was short and dark. She had on a gray sweatshirt and no shoes.
