The old farmhouse where he grew up still stood, the yard overgrown and thigh high, the front porch gray and sagging. The storm door hung on one hinge and scraped on the porch floor when he opened it. Inside, the paint was peeling and a musty, dead smell assaulted his nose.
When he walked into the kitchen, the memories of that night long ago came back like a punch to the gut. He was five when his father killed his mother in a drunken rage. The brown cloud of dried blood was still on the wall.