The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me standing in the dim hallway with the brass key cold against my palm.
I stood there for a full minute, listening to the rumble of his car engine starting on the other side of the drywall, the sound vibrating through the floorboards.
By nine o’clock, the heat in the county payroll office was already dry and stuffy. I sat in my cubicle, surrounded by the quiet hum of computer fans and the smell of stale breakroom coffee that someone had burnt at eight-thirty.
My job as a payroll administrator required an absolute focus on details, on tracking every decimal and verifying every signature before the direct deposits went out. I was good at it because I liked order, and I liked knowing that every number had a verifiable source.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I logged into the Wake County public records portal, my screen reflecting the pale beige of my cubicle walls.
I entered our address on Oak Ridge Road, clicking through the legal history of the red-brick colonial we had shared for nine years.
