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

ear, staring at the narrow basement windows just above ground level. My daughter Cassandra had left for her downtown gallery forty-five minutes earlier. The house was empty except for me.

“I’ll check it out,” I said.

I descended the basement stairs slowly, one hand on the railing. Sixteen steps. I’d walked them thousands of times over twenty-three years continue reading …