Muddy footprints were also visible in the kitchen.
Then I saw the wedding arch.
It stood close to the water.
Covered with flowers.
Grandma’s flowers.
The roses that had been planted for the anniversary had been cut down almost to the bare stems.
Whole clumps of lavender had been ripped from the ground.
The daisies that had been planted after my youth recital hung upside down from a white ribbon that was already turning brown.
And the peonies—
the little plants Grandma planted when I was born.
was completely uprooted.
Their roots emerged from under the arch, intertwined with thread and fabric.
Mason stood next to me.
For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.
Then he whispered:
I told her.
His voice sounded different.
I made her make a promise.
