By Thursday morning, I was sitting in Gloria’s sewing room on Walnut Street, watching her run a grey wool trousers hem under the needle. The single sixty-watt bulb overhead gave off a steady hum that vibrated in my teeth.
“She has not called you once since Tuesday?” Gloria asked.
She did not look up from the fabric, but her spectacles were already pushed up into her grey hair.
“Not a word,” I said.
Gloria stopped her foot on the pedal, the sudden quiet filling the small room. She walked to the window and pulled back the lace curtain, squinting out at the street.
“Her blue sedan is not in her driveway,” Gloria said. “I drove by on my way from the grocery store. The house looked completely dark.”
I adjusted my silver wedding band, sliding it up and down my knuckle. “She was probably at work.”
“At nine in the morning on a Thursday?” Gloria shook her head, letting the curtain fall back. “Brenda does not do morning shifts.”
