The Lawn Worker Heard Crying in My Basement and I Knew Something Was Wrong

on the corner, condensation still beading on its sides. I touched it. Cold. Recently filled. The wall clock read 7:43. Cassandra had left at seven. The small sink in the corner had a damp faucet handle. A faint scent of lavender soap lingered in the air.

Then my eyes settled on the back wall.

The paint matched the rest of the studio, the same dove gray continue reading …