Socks.
White socks.

Shelly had known they were her husband’s white socks on sight; she’d cleaned them often enough. She recognized them immediately, dangling at eye-level just past the hotel room balcony, with Roy’s feet still inside them.

What she hadn’t recognized was the voice of the girl weeping above.

Cal lives in Hillsborough, NC where he writes experimental fiction, reads detective novels, and talks to his houseplants.