He took a small sip, his fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. He did not ask any more questions, but he did not let go of the blue toy truck either.
By three in the morning, the house had grown entirely cold. I lay in the center of our king-sized bed, staring at the plaster molding on the ceiling.
A sharp pair of headlights swept across the white plaster, moving from left to right as a car turned into the courtyard. The engine cut out, leaving only the ticking sound of hot metal cooling in the driveway.
I did not move. I did not turn over to look at the bedside clock.
Below me, the front door lock turned, the bolt sliding back into the frame with a heavy, oiled thud. Joe’s footsteps were slow and deliberate on the stairs, but they did not stop at our bedroom door.
They continued down the hall, toward the guest room at the far end of the corridor. I heard the latch of the guest room door click, followed by the soft groan of the mattress springs.
The silence that followed was heavier than the darkness. I lay there for three hours, counting the minutes until the sky turned the color of wet slate.
At five, I got out of bed and put on my wool robe. The house was completely silent as I walked down the back stairs to the study.
The air in the room smelled of old paper, leather, and the faint trace of Joe’s cigar smoke from the previous weekend. His mahogany desk stood in the center of the room, its surface clear of everything except a green blotter and a brass pen stand.
I walked behind the desk and sat in the leather chair. My hand went to the brass handle of the bottom drawer on the left side, where the family’s old tax files were kept.
The drawer slid open with a quiet wooden scrape.
I reached past the thick manila folders from five years ago, my fingers brushing against the dusty cardboard dividers. Behind the files for the year we bought the Greenwich house, my hand hit something small and metallic.
