“I will clear the plates,” I said, standing up before he could answer.
Once he had gone into the den to watch the evening news, I walked back to the upstairs hallway and pulled the small black book from my pocket.
I stood under the yellow light of the hallway bulb, the paper rough under my thumb.
I stared at the dark ink line he had drawn through Brenda’s name, thick and heavy, as if he wanted to erase her from the paper entirely.
I slipped the address book back behind the blankets, smoothing the wool so the metal box stayed hidden in the dark corner of the closet. My hands were still cold when I walked down the hall, but I kept my fingers flat against my thighs to stop them from tapping against my collarbone.
By eight the next morning, the gravel in our driveway was dark with the humidity that settled over Oakhaven every June. I walked down to the mailbox, the soles of my shoes crunching against the small stones, watching the empty street.
