The passenger side mirror was tilted down and inward, the glass reflecting the gravel shoulder of the driveway rather than the road behind us.
I reached for the small plastic toggle on the door panel, but my fingers could not quite align with the switch.
“David,” I said as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Who drove the car yesterday?”
He turned the key in the ignition, the engine catching with a low, familiar rumble.
He did not answer, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror as he checked the empty space behind us.
“Your mother was driving it?” I asked.
“She needed to run to the grocery store,” David said, his hand resting on the gear shift.
He did not put the car in reverse, his fingers tapping a fast, uneven rhythm on the leather-wrapped wheel.
“She rearranged some things in the kitchen, Cindy,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, defensive tone he used when he wanted to avoid an argument.
I looked at his profile, the small line of tension near his jaw that always appeared when Eleanor was nearby.
“What do you mean, rearranged?” I asked.
