Arthur spooned a portion onto his plate, then looked across the table at me with a steady, unblinking gaze.
“David tells me you work in forensic accounting, Nora,” Arthur said, his voice slow.
“Yes, mostly auditing small businesses,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steady.
“A lot of looking through other people’s private drawers, then,” Arthur said, slowly chewing.
David cleared his throat, his posture tightening. “It’s just numbers, Dad. She helps people find where the leaks are before it is too late.”
“Leaks are usually personal,” Arthur said, his eyes fixed on mine. “Tell me about your parents. What does your father do for a living?”
My fork hovered over my plate, the metal cold against my fingers.
“My parents divorced when I was young,” I said, my voice dropping. “We don’t keep in touch.”
Arthur set his fork down with a small, sharp clink that made the water glasses ring.
“We keep things very transparent in this household, Nora,” he said.
The table went entirely quiet, and Brenda began folding her paper napkin into a tight triangle over and over.
At six o’clock, David and I carried the empty plates back into the kitchen to clear the counter.
My purse was sitting on the counter near the window, and next to it was a yellow sticky note Brenda had left by the refrigerator.
Arthur walked into the kitchen, his steps slow and measured, his eyes locking onto my purse.
He stared intensely at the leather bag, his brow furrowing as if he recognized something dangerous inside it.
To free my hands so I could help David load the dishwasher, I decided to place my vintage blue leather planner on the kitchen counter.
The blue cover looked bright against the dark granite, a neat little block of my own life sitting in the middle of their kitchen.
