Then Tiffany appeared. Polished, smiling, my apron tied around her narrow waist like a costume.
“I told Peter I’d be here today,” I said.
She smiled, but her eyes did not. “Well, we’re here now. And honestly, there’s no room for extra guests.”
Extra guests. In my own house.
It was such a perfect sentence that for a moment I almost admired its cruelty. She had prepared it. I could tell. It was not a slip. It was a message.
Everyone inside had stopped moving. They were watching. Waiting to see if the old woman would cry, or shout, or beg her place back like some foolish sentimental widow no one had to take seriously.
I looked at the keys in my palm. Then at the muddy shoe print on the rug I had cleaned on my hands and knees.
“All right,” I said softly.
Relief flashed across her face.
