Sycamore Row - John Grisham

view of the street. The room was dark. He entered quietly, then stopped, and when she
knew he was listening she said, “I’m so sick of seeing police cars in front of my house,
Jake.”
He took a deep breath and a step closer. This conversation was too familiar, and a
wrong word could send it spiraling down. “So am I,” he said softly.
“What did he want?” she asked.
“Not much, just some background on Seth Hubbard. Ozzie’s been asking around but
hasn’t found much.”
“He couldn’t call you tomorrow? Why does he have to drive over and park in front of
our house so everyone can see that the Brigances can’t make it through the night
without the police showing up again?”
Questions with no answers.
Jake bit his tongue and eased out of the room.