It was silly really, but as she stepped into the attic and snapped on the light, she went cold inside. It was night, Shane was working in the den downstairs and she needed time alone. To think. To consider her life. To silently pray that her daughters were safe. She’d used the excuse of looking for her grandmother’s recipe box, lost when it had been packed away during the kitchen remodel. The attic was cold, its sloped ceiling uninsulated, the sharp tips of roofing nails visible between the rafters. One of the light bulbs had burned out, leaving just one small bulb to illuminate the vast space with its dormers and peek-a-boo windows. She pulled her sweater around her body a little more tightly. Here, she thought, was the detritus of her life, the pieces and things that no longer fit into her daily routine. Boxes, broken tables, a broken lamp, pictures and frames stacked in a corner. The wind was blowing hard outside, whistling through the rafters in this section of the rambling old house, one of the few places she hadn’t renovated over the years.
