Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
The wooden tracks groaned before sliding open.
Before I reached the tax returns, my fingers brushed against a folder containing brochures from a local real estate developer.
I moved them aside, my focus staying on the dark spaces at the back of the drawer.
Underneath three years of tax returns lay a small, black leather-bound diary.
It had no gold lettering, no lock, and no markings on the cover.
I lifted it out, its weight heavy and cold in my hands.
I sat on the edge of the leather chair, opening the book to the first page.
The handwriting was David’s, neat and microscopic, written in dark black ink.
The first entry was dated July twelfth.
“Rachel forgot the dry cleaner’s address today,” the entry read. “She spent ten minutes driving down Main Street before turning back.”
I stared at the words, the black ink stark against the lined paper.
On July twelfth, I had gone to the dry cleaner to pick up his wool suits, and the shop had been closed for plumbing repairs.
I had told him that over dinner that very night.
