Count no man happy until you know the manner of his death.

  --Herodotus

  That very afternoon, Sheriff Alexander Lynn sat in his squad car parked in the driveway of 774 Elm Way, the Holmstead residence. His fingers tapped idly on the steering wheel as he stared at the house, lost in thought.

  Suddenly the front door burst open, and Dolores Holmstead rushed out, her faded flowery dress and white apron fluttering as she hurried toward him, her white tennis shoes scuffing against the pavement. She was already speaking before Alex even had the chance to open his door.

  “—tried asking if he wanted me to call the doctor,” Her words burst in on him as Alex opened the door and stepped out. “But all he did was ask to see you, Alex. It’s all he’s been saying since he woke up this morning,” She clutched the hem of her apron tightly, her knuckles pale.

  The contrast between Dolores and her husband was striking. At seventy, she looked like she could’ve still been fifty, while Peter Holmstead, only a year older, was a bedridden wreck of a man.

  Alex nodded and followed her up the neat, stone-stepped path. The lawn sprinkler arced water across the grass, and he tipped his hat slightly to shield himself from its spray.

  Inside, the air was filled with the sweet, warm aroma of a pie, reminding Alex of the monkey bread Dolores used to bake when he was a boy. On the table by the door was the old snow globe, with its tiny scene of Eskimos and an igloo. It had been there for as long as Alex could remember, one of those odd knick-knacks that seemed perfectly suited to the Holmsteads’ home.

  “He’s back in his bedroom,” Dolores said, beckoning Alex to follow.

  As they passed through the living room, Alex glanced through the old-fashioned diamond pane glass of the back door, at the immaculate green lawn and its little square of concrete patio. A memory came to him of a summer day long ago, when he had proudly demonstrated for Pete how many pushups he could do. The house hadn’t changed in the thirty years he’d known them. It was a time capsule of comfort and familiarity.

  Against the back wall stood the old piano. A withered, moldering navel orange sat atop it—a sharp contrast to the otherwise spotless room. He frowned briefly, hoping that Dolores had simply forgotten about it in her worry for Pete.

  They reached the hallway, and Alex felt a wave of nostalgia as he passed the walls lined with dozens of photographs, some going back decades—some even older than Dolores herself. He recognized many of the faces, people from around town, frozen in their younger years. Others were of unfamiliar, of people and places that Alex had never seen before. One in particular had always fascinated him. It showed Pete standing in front of a church with a high white steeple and elaborate stained glass windows. There was no church like it in Bend. Even at ten, Alex had known that. And if it wasn’t in Bend, then...what? He had never had the nerve to ask.

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  Dolores stopped at a door at the end of the hall and opened it a few inches, saying softly, “Pete, honey. Alex is here.” She pushed the door open and motioned Alex inside.

  The room was dark, all the curtains drawn. All he could see at first was the shadowy silhouette of a bed against the far wall. Alex let his eyes adjust for a moment, then crossed the room and stood beside the bed.

  “Hey, Pete.”

  Pete’s eyes flickered open, struggling to focus on him.

  “Lex,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “We got to hurry. The numbing doctor’s on his way.”

  Puzzled, Alex glanced at Dolores, but she offered no explanation for the strange words.

  Pete raised a trembling finger, pointing toward the door. “Close it,” he murmured, his lips dry and cracked.

  “Okay, Pete.” Alex moved to shut the door.

  “Wait.” Pete’s next words came haltingly, his breath labored. “Out. Her out.”

  Alex looked at Dolores awkwardly.

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “All right. I’ll be right outside.” But she hesitated for a moment before stepping out and closing the door behind her.

  Alex pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. Pete’s hand shot out and gripped his with surprising strength.

  “I’m scared, Alex,” Pete whispered.

  “Scared of what, Pete?”

  “Of dying.” Tears tunneled down the webs of wrinkles in his cheeks.

  “Pete. You don’t have to be scared of dying. You lived a good life.”

  “The labyrinth—” Pete began, but a violent cough interrupted him. He struggled to breathe, his chest rising and falling in shallow heaves.

  Alex patted his hand. “You don’t need to worry yourself about the labyrinth, Pete. Just take it easy.”

  But Pete’s face twisted in terror. “Hell’s comin’. Please forgive me, Alex,” he cried, his voice cracking.

  Alex tried desperately to calm him. “I don’t have to forgive you for anything, Pete. You’ve done good all the time I’ve known you.”

  Pete shook his head weakly. “What we did...what we did made the labyrinth, Lex. We did it...we did it and...” he fought to speak, his body convulsing with the effort, “And now...now they’re coming...coming to—” His voice faded all at once into a horrible, gasping rattle, as his hand clenched Alex’s for one terrible moment, then went limp and dropped away.

  “Pete?” Alex was stunned. He leaned closer, placing his ear to Pete’s chest. There was no sound but the whispering sigh of the last breath leaving his body. It was so sudden, so abrupt. He looked around the room, as if it somehow held the answer to what had just happened. Then he took a deep breath, pulling himself together. He got up to open the door.

  “Dolores,” he said quietly, stepping into the hallway. “Pete’s gone.”

  She gasped out a cry, her hands flying to cover her face. “What did he say? What did he tell you, Alex?”

  “He said he wished he’d done more for you and the kids,” Alex lied.

  Dolores ran to the bed and collapsed onto Pete’s lifeless figure, sobbing. “Oh, Pete, of course you did. You always did.”

  “That’s what I told him,” Alex said softly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go call the doctor, tell him to come and get Pete.”

  “Thank you, Alex. You’re a godsend.” Dolores’ voice was muffled, buried in the cold crook of Pete’s neck.

  Alex stepped out of the room, leaving her to her grief. He went back out through the hallway with its old pictures, past the piano, the empty back yard, the snow globe, through the cold kitchen, down the path, back to his car. He opened the door, put the keys in the ignition and stared at the steering wheel. Something told him Pete’s last words weren’t merely the ramblings of a dying man. Something told him he had just played priest to Pete’s final confession.

  Alex pulled out of the driveway, wanting to never go back to that house again.