Eight
John Willis stepped off his front porch on Christmas morning and inhaled the fresh clean scent of snow in the air. There was no smell like it in the world. It was pure. That was the best way he could describe it. There was a purity of nature in snowfall. He walked down the driveway and then looked toward the Macholans’ house. He noticed a set of footprints that led from the back of the neighbors’ house toward the window below Bailey’s room. A tall ladder leaned against the brick of his house, stopping just at the second-story window of his daughter’s bedroom.
“Huh . . .” He walked over to the ladder and brushed the snow off its rungs. The name Macholan had been written along the flat part of the ladder in black marker. He moved his gaze between Bailey’s window and the window that f
