“I thought the bank director was retiring in December,” I said.
Daniel stopped, his hand hovering over his watch clasp for a fraction of a second before he secured it.
“He is,” Daniel said. “Which is exactly why his successor is the one we are taking care of.”
He picked up his leather briefcase from the armchair, the material creaking in the quiet room. He walked out without another word, leaving the bedroom door wide open behind him.
By eight, the kitchen was bright with the morning sun, though the air outside remained crisp and damp. The low hum of the commercial kitchen mixer on the far counter filled the room as I prepped a batch of dough for the freezer.
I stood by the island wearing my cream-colored apron decorated with faded red apples, slicing red apples for the morning oatmeal.
Daniel came back down the hallway, his car keys already jingling in his palm as he walked. His phone lay on the granite counter beside the fruit bowl, sitting flat on its face.
As soon as my knife hit the cutting board, the phone buzzed against the stone, a short, sharp vibration that made the ceramic bowl ring.
Daniel reached out and snatched the phone off the counter before the screen could fully light up. He slid it into his breast pocket in one continuous motion.
“Who was that?” I asked, keeping my voice soft, my eyes on the apple slices.
“Just the drywall contractor,” he said. “They had a leak on the third floor of the model home.”
“At eight on a Saturday?” I asked.
“Drywallers do not keep bank hours, Claire,” he said.
He poured the rest of his coffee into a travel mug, the black liquid splashing slightly over the silver rim. He did not look at the counter or at me as he wiped the spill with a paper towel
