“You look like you did not sleep,” Sarah said, pushing the paper menu toward me.
“I slept enough,” I said, choosing my words with the slow precision that kept my voice from cracking.
The waitress set down two garden salads and a small pitcher of dressing without speaking. I picked up my fork, but the food on the plate seemed entirely flat.
“I found something in the car this morning,” I said, reaching into my pocket.
I placed the gold cufflink on the paper placemat between our plates. Sarah looked down at the engraved initials, her fork stopping halfway to her mouth.
“That is not Jason’s,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“No,” I said. “And he left his house keys on the kitchen counter this morning because he was in a hurry to leave after his phone buzzed.”
Sarah reached into her leather handbag and pulled out a small, white card, sliding it across the table until it rested next to the cufflink.
“His name is Arthur Vance,” Sarah said. “He does seventy-five dollars an hour, and he does not make mistakes.”
