One

      Caleb Bishop dropped his suitcase on the front porch. He was home. Funny thing was, this old house in Crooked Oak didn’t seem much like home anymore. He’d left at eighteen and had been back only twice—his grandfather’s funeral and his sister’s wedding.

      He wouldn’t be here now if there was anyplace else on earth where he could hide away and lick his wounds.

      Giving the old wooden porch swing a nudge with his hand, he watched it sway back and forth and remembered the summer he’d helped his grandfather build the swing. At that time his brother Jake had already been gone six years and they’d had no idea where he was. Hank had been in the army for a year, and their tomboy sister Tallie had been only fourteen. He had just turned sixteen and his prized possession was a black 1980 Camaro, the car he later wrecked, the night after his high school graduation.

      Turning around to face the house, Caleb reached under the cushion in the wooden rocker to the left of the swing. He clasped the house key in his hand. Shaking his head, he grinned. Some things never changed, especially in a place like Crooked Oak, Tennessee. Maybe that was the reason he’d come home, back to where life was uncomplicated and the people were basically good.

      Using his right hand, he inserted the key in the lock, then turned the doorknob. The damn thing wouldn’t open. Was it stuck? Had Tallie changed the lock and just forgotten and left the old key under the cushion? Balling his hand into a fist, he gritted his teeth and cursed. Switching to his left hand, he turned the key again and heard a distinct click, then he grabbed the doorknob and notated it. The door opened. Caleb grunted.

      The simple things were what bothered him the most because they were