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That note, thirty-four words long, is all I get. Seven months after we parted <strong>in</strong> jail, I aga<strong>in</strong> return to<br />
Ma<strong>in</strong>e. On <strong>the</strong> drive from <strong>the</strong> airport, I stop by <strong>the</strong> Fox Hill Lilac Nursery and purchase a large sprig of<br />
purple lilacs. It’s my olive branch. <strong>The</strong>n I head to Hillman’s Bakery <strong>in</strong> Fairfield and buy an apple pie, a gift<br />
for his mo<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
Past lumber mills and antiques shops, bed-and-breakfasts and above-ground swimm<strong>in</strong>g pools. A couple<br />
of wild turkeys strut along <strong>the</strong> road’s shoulder. <strong>The</strong>re are farm eggs for sale on a fold<strong>in</strong>g table at <strong>the</strong> end of a<br />
driveway, but no person <strong>the</strong>re—just a box for <strong>the</strong> money. Central Ma<strong>in</strong>e is still on <strong>the</strong> honor system.<br />
It takes forty seconds to drive <strong>the</strong> length of Albion’s Ma<strong>in</strong> Street—post office, library, gas station,<br />
church, general store. At <strong>the</strong> store, a bullet<strong>in</strong> board has handwritten signs for diesel eng<strong>in</strong>e repair, yoga<br />
classes, snow removal, and hunt<strong>in</strong>g guides. <strong>The</strong>re are no traffic lights. At both ends of <strong>the</strong> town are clusters<br />
of white or tan wood-sided homes set close to <strong>the</strong> road. <strong>The</strong>n it’s countryside aga<strong>in</strong>: a dairy farm, a place<br />
that will butcher your deer, a vest-pocket cemetery with a few tombstones nearly two hundred years old.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Knight house is mostly hidden beh<strong>in</strong>d a wall of hedges and trees. Only <strong>the</strong> second-floor w<strong>in</strong>dows,<br />
with bright blue shutters, are visible from <strong>the</strong> road, two rectangular eyes peer<strong>in</strong>g out of <strong>the</strong> greenery. A<br />
black mailbox says, “Joyce W. Knight” on it, beside two newspaper boxes, one for <strong>the</strong> Portland Press<br />
Herald, one for <strong>the</strong> Morn<strong>in</strong>g Sent<strong>in</strong>el. A giant red maple dom<strong>in</strong>ates <strong>the</strong> front yard.<br />
I pull my rental car <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> short dirt drive, <strong>in</strong> front of a small garage separate from <strong>the</strong> house that has a<br />
wea<strong>the</strong>r vane on top and a metal sign that says <strong>in</strong> embossed letters, “Sheldon C. Knight.” <strong>The</strong> yard is quiet.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re’s no sign of ano<strong>the</strong>r vehicle. No one seems to be home. I sit <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> car for a moment, wonder<strong>in</strong>g what<br />
to do. Someth<strong>in</strong>g about <strong>the</strong> house makes me nervous, though it’s unremarkable <strong>in</strong> every way, just a boxy<br />
wood-sided place, pa<strong>in</strong>ted pale yellow, with a couple of asphalt roof tiles <strong>in</strong> need of replac<strong>in</strong>g. I get out of<br />
<strong>the</strong> car, carry<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> lilac sprig and <strong>the</strong> apple pie, and take a few strides toward <strong>the</strong> front door when out of<br />
<strong>the</strong> bushes, soundlessly, steps Chris Knight.