Benny shook his head.
“It absolutely is.”
I folded my arms.
“Logan, please explain.”
He took a breath.
“This morning, Andrew wanted to go see the Jacksons’ dog.”
“Rufus?”
“Yeah. He kept asking, so I took him for a walk.”
I nodded.
“We were passing Mr. Henson’s house when I heard something fall.”
I knew Walter Henson.
He was seventy-eight, lived four houses down, and had been a widower for years.
Every summer, he grew enormous tomatoes and gave them away to neighbors.
After Daniel’s funeral, Walter had brought us homemade chili.
He hadn’t stayed long.
He’d simply told me that grief never disappeared completely, but people gradually learned how to live with it.
I’d never forgotten his kindness.
Logan continued.
“Mr. Henson was lying on his porch beside the swing.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened to him?”
“He wasn’t responding normally.”
Benny stepped forward.
