They sat at the small wooden dining table that wobbled whenever anyone shifted weight. A plate of plain pasta with canned sauce sat between them, mostly untouched. Zoe had eaten two bites before retreating to her corner of the living room with her drawing pad, her small colored pencils scattered around her feet.
Ruth sat perfectly upright in the wobbly wooden chair, still holding her purse against her lap as if she were a guest waiting for a train. Her eyes kept darting to the clanking radiator, then back to Adam’s face.
“Adam,” Ruth said, her voice gentler now but still carrying that sharp edge of inquiry. “Your father told us he was working late on your birthday in June. He said he had a trial in Cleveland that ran until midnight.”
Adam did not look up from his fork. He traced a circle in the spilled red sauce on the edge of his plate. “He said he was bringing a new wooden chess set from the shop downtown. He told me he already bought it and had it in his trunk.”
