“No, thank you,” she said. “I have a specific arrangement for this.”
“It is no trouble at all,” I said, reaching a hand over the damp hedge. “I still have my strength from the postal routes.”
“I said no, Robert.”
She adjusted her silk scarf again, her fingers hovering over her collarbone for a second too long. Then she turned her back to me, her movements stiff and slow, and walked back up her concrete steps without another word, closing the heavy oak door behind her with a soft, final click.
I stood by the hedge for a moment, my hand still empty in the air. The black contractor bag sat on the gravel, perfectly sealed, its double knot tied with a tight, professional precision that reminded me of the registered mail sacks we used to lock in the safe.
I walked back across the street and entered our kitchen. Anna had already poured two mugs of black coffee and sat at the table, her finger tracing the blue pattern of her saucer.
