Why would Arthur keep a deceased relative’s strong sedative hidden in his closet?
Below me, the heavy thud of the garage door entry echoed through the floorboards.
I dropped the bottle back into the pocket, zipped the leather shut, and stepped out of the closet just as Arthur’s footsteps reached the stairs.
“Did you find everything you needed?” I asked, meeting him in the hallway.
“Just the basics,” he said, holding up a paper bag of groceries.
He gave me a thin, reassuring smile, but he did not look me in the eye.
By two that afternoon, the sun had cleared the oak trees, casting long shadows across the concrete patio.
Arthur came out carrying a tray with two mugs of hot cider and a square package wrapped in brown paper.
He set the tray on the iron table and pushed the package toward my hands.
“Open it,” he said.
I untied the thin string and folded back the paper to find a leather-bound garden journal, its pages thick and cream-colored.
“You have been so forgetful lately, Diane, I thought this journal would help keep your days straight,” he said.
