“Craig Pratt?”
He didn’t answer.
He looked at the detective, then at his wife, then at the tray of deviled eggs, as if one of them might save him.
Slowly, his hand rose to his wrist.
He undid the clasp of the gold Rolex.
He laid it on the tablecloth beside his untouched plate.
It looked heavy.
Heavier than any watch should.
“I’d like a word outside, sir,” Detective Iverson said gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”
He stood.
He walked past his sister, past his wife, past eighteen silent faces and a cold roast chicken.
At the door, he turned.
He looked at Wyatt, and Wyatt looked back at him, and neither of them said anything.
Then my brother went out into the dark, and the officer closed the door behind him.
Chapter 5: Peach Cobbler Sundays
Craig pleaded guilty in January.
