But men like Travis never asked questions because they wanted answers. They asked them because they enjoyed the shape of another man’s pain.
The county deputy standing near the driveway looked uncomfortable. He was young enough to be my apprentice from back when I worked sheet metal over at the Cessna plant in Wichita, and I could tell he hated being there. Travis didn’t hate it at all.
“The house was my mother’s before you married her,” he said. “The will is clear.”
“The will was changed while she was on morphine,” I said.
His smile thinned. “Careful.”
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