Arthur looked over the top of his gold-rimmed reading glasses, his brow furrowing into three deep lines. He folded the newspaper twice, placing it precisely on his knees.
“Ben is a sensible young man,” he said, his voice carrying the dry weight of a courtroom. “He has been assisting me with some personal matters.”
“He won’t show me his ledger, and Mother is hiding the mail,” I said. “What is going on in this house?”
He took off his glasses, letting them dangle from the black cord around his neck.
“Some decisions are made to keep this house quiet, Cathy,” he said, his eyes drilling into mine. “You would do well to respect that.”
I turned toward the hallway, the silver ring on my finger digging into my palm as I clenched my fist.
My mother was in the hallway, carrying a stack of folded linen towels toward the closet. She didn’t look at me as she passed, her eyes fixed on the blank wall ahead of her.
“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” she said.
“I’m not hungry,” I said, but she had already closed the closet door, the latch clicking shut with a finality that made me shiver.
The air outside had turned sharp with the coming frost, carrying the damp scent of autumn leaves rotting in the shadows.
Rosie was standing near the withered stalks of the summer garden, her yellow sweater a bright spot against the graying fence. She pointed a stubby finger toward the hedge where a brown rabbit sat frozen under the brambles.
“Look, Cathy, look,” she whispered, her voice coming in a short, excited burst. “A little bunny, bunny.”
I took her hand, her skin warm and dry despite the evening chill. She clapped her hands against her cheeks, her eyes shining as the rabbit hopped into the deeper brush.
“Ben was here today,” I said gently, walking her back toward the gravel path. “Did he say anything special to you, Rosie?”
Rosie stopped, her cheeks turning a deep pink under her wool cap. She looked down at her shoes, twisting the hem of her sweater.
