A nurse from the oncology ward stopped by my table, holding a plastic tray with a bowl of soup.
“Are you taking the night shift too, Clara?” she asked.
“Just the day,” I said, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears.
“You look like you’re still on London time,” she said, gesturing to my face before she walked toward the microwave.
I locked my phone screen and slid it into my pocket, the cold weight of the device pressing against my hip as I stood up to throw my lunch away.
At three in the afternoon, I used my short break to drive fifteen minutes north to the Oakridge estate. The gray Buick groaned as I turned it onto the gravel drive, the tires crunching through the first heavy drop of dry oak leaves that had settled across the driveway.
I let myself in through the side door, using the spare key we always kept under the copper planter. The house was quiet, smelling of the lavender drawer liners my mother favored and the faint, sweet tang of furniture polish.
