“There is nothing to read, Avery, it is just a routine transfer so we can separate our liabilities before the winter bills start coming in. It is what any lawyer would tell you to do.”
“The kettle is whistling,” I said, though it was only beginning to hum on the stove in the other room.
I turned toward the kitchen, leaving him standing by the hearth with his hand resting on the mantel.
The old vintage refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen was humming its low, steady B-flat, a sound that usually comforted me but tonight felt like a low warning.
On the kitchen island, next to his car keys, lay a crumpled slip of paper from the night before, an eighty-four dollar receipt for a dinner at a French bistro downtown that he had not mentioned to me.
I took down the silver teapot from the shelf, its polished surface reflecting the yellow ceiling light and the tight line of my mouth.
Scott followed me into the room a moment later, his fingers already working at the knot of his tie, pulling it loose with a sharp tug.
