Jake’s house was a rather average ranch-style house in a rather average looking Southern neighborhood. As Damian recalled, Jake had grown up in this town and he rather suspected this was probably the house he’d grown up in.
It was painted a faded yellow with white trim and there were swarms of cars parked up and down the narrow street. Probably everyone in town was there.
Damian headed up the stone walkway pretty much figuring he would be the lone black man there. The front door was open, leaving only a screen door closed. Within the house he could see several folks from the funeral milling about.
The screen door popped open and Jake stood there. “Hi, come in.”
Swallowing back his hesitation, Damian entered the house. All conversation seemed to stop. Or was that his imagination?
“Um,”
