The local diner was nearly empty at eight o’clock, the vinyl booths smelling of maple syrup and grease. The diner was called The Copper Kettle, a place where Julian and I used to go on Thursday nights when he was still establishing his pediatric practice. The vinyl booth had a patch of gray duct tape over a tear in the corner, and Julian sat across from me, his bare wedding ring finger looking pale and thin under the fluorescent lights. He rubbed the empty spot where his gold band used to sit, his eyes avoiding mine as he stared at his untouched mug of black coffee.
“You need to stop digging into the old family files, Clara,” Julian said, his voice soft and hesitant.
I took a slow sip of my water, watching the way his shoulders curved inward.
“What files, Julian?”
“Victoria called me this afternoon,” he said, leaning forward over the laminate table, his voice dropping to a breathy whisper. “She said you’ve been going through Mother’s things, acting unstable again.”
