I’m 67 years old. I’ve buried my wife. I’ve buried my parents and a brother and most of my friends. I know what a man looks like when grief has got him by the throat. And this man, whoever he was, was drowning in it.
But I’d also lived long enough to know that a crying man and a dangerous man aren’t always different people.
So I kept my distance.
“I called the police,” I told him. “They’re on their way. So whatever this is, you need to tell me right now.”
He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Big knuckles, scarred up. A ring on one finger, worn thin.
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