“You need to call somebody,” he said.
I stared at the frozen watch.
“No.”
“Lena.”
“I know that watch.”
He swallowed.
“So do I.”
My husband Daniel had worn it constantly.
Every Saturday morning, he wore that watch while trimming the hedges with Callahan, arguing about football, or complaining that I planted too many roses.
He wore it almost everywhere.
After Daniel died three years earlier, I asked the hospital about the watch.
They told me it had been misplaced.
At the time, I was drowning in grief and paperwork and decisions I barely remembered making.
So I let it go.
Now Daniel’s missing watch was frozen inside a block of ice on my front porch.
That should have frightened me into calling the police immediately.
Instead, something inside me switched back on.
“Don’t step anywhere,” I told Callahan.
He blinked.
“What?”
“Not on the grass. Not near the curb. Go get your tape measure.”
