My keys sat in the cup holder next to an eighty-four dollar receipt for our anniversary dinner from the previous Tuesday.
I looked at the dashboard clock, which read ten past ten.
In a matter of fifteen minutes, the life I had built over fifteen years had simply collapsed.
I did not turn on the radio, nor did I start the engine.
I simply sat there, watching the shadow of the maple tree shift slowly across the hood of my car.
At quarter to two, I pulled into the gravel parking lot of Carter and Associates.
The law office was located in a restored Victorian house on the edge of the Oak Creek town square.
Jerome Carter sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his sixty-five-year-old frame upright and still.
The office smelled of old books and beeswax, the walls lined with dark green leather-bound volumes.
“He told me to leave the house today, Jerome,” I said, sitting on the edge of the green leather guest chair.
Jerome did not answer immediately.
He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved a silk cloth, and began to clean his wire-rimmed glasses with slow, deliberate strokes.
