TWENTY-FIVE
James Cantrell couldn’t remember exactly when his family stopped reaching out to him. It took some doing. The problem had been the house. Frank, the younger brother, was a hell of a realtor. The man knew how to write a listing that would have people in line to see a discarded, Crayon-colored refrigerator box.
James knew Frank thought that selling the house so soon after burying Linda and Matthew was a bad idea. If James had to guess, Frank could have sold the house in a few days. Instead, it took months. In the meantime, James did not want to be bothered. Thankfully, the firm he worked at gave him an approved leave of absence. He was told he could take all the time he needed.
After months passed, James was sure the constant checking on him would stop.
It didn’t, and it didn
