The name on the query was mine, but the internet address listed beneath it was a string of numbers I did not recognize.
I left his office with a printout of the log folded in my purse, the paper still warm from his laser printer.
By seven o’clock, the wind had picked up, blowing dry maple leaves across the porch of my mother’s brick home two miles away.
Evelyn was in the dining room, using a piece of yellow flannel to polish a heavy silver tea tray she had inherited from her aunt. The smell of lemon wood polish was thick in the warm air.
“You left your spare brass key at my place last winter,” I said, standing near the sideboard. “The one with the red plastic tab.”
She did not look up from the tray, her hand moving in small, tight circles over the tarnished metal. She smoothed her hair behind her ears with her free hand, a quick, elegant gesture.
