I looked deeper into the empty metal box, searching for the white medical folders from the hospital in Toledo, the ones from our first year of marriage when I had lost the baby. They were not there, and they were not in the filing cabinet in the basement.
Where did my medical records from that first pregnancy go?
I closed the black leather address book and slipped it into the pocket of my cardigan, then locked the gray box and returned it to its hiding place behind the blankets.
At seven o’clock, we sat across from each other at the dining room table. The light from the chandelier overhead cast long, narrow shadows across the polished wood, catching the edge of Luke’s water glass. I had made a simple dinner of roast chicken and carrots, but the food sat cold on my plate.
“You are very quiet tonight, Caroline,” Luke said, his voice calm and steady as he cut his meat.
