I was in the office, going over a last-ditch maneuver to save a teen on death row when the phone rang. I picked it up, irritated at the interruption.
“This had better be good!” I snapped.
“Mrs. Weaver?” The quiet voice on the line raised the hairs on the back of my neck. “It’s about your husband, Mr. Thomas Weaver…”
I let the phone slip from my nerveless fingers, drowning out the sympathetic voice and all the futile explanations. Tom was gone. That big, brave heart had failed.
“I’m alone,” I whispered. “I’m all alone.”
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