Now, sitting in the quiet of the car, I wondered if my mind was beginning to slip, just as Robert had suggested during dinner last week. He had pointed out that I left the kettle on the stove, though I could have sworn I turned the burner off. He had offered to take over the mail, saying it was too much of a chore for me to walk down to the box in the autumn cold.
I closed my eyes, trying to hear the exact tone of his voice on the phone again. He had sounded so light, as if he were ordering a sandwich. I tried to convince myself he was talking about something else, perhaps a new commercial lease for his office. But the word Chatham remained stuck in my head like a splinter.
I turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and drove toward the only place that felt safe.
Rebecca’s kitchen smelled of cinnamon and floor wax. She set a blue ceramic mug of English Breakfast tea in front of me, her fingers resting on the handle for a second before she sat down.
