Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“The dining room will be crowded on a Saturday evening,” I said.
“That is exactly what we need,” he said. “A lively room, some good wine, and a chance to focus on each other.”
He smiled, a reassuring, professional smile that did not reach his eyes. His gaze drifted past my shoulder to the darkened hallway.
“I will take care of everything,” he said, rising from the table to clear his plate.
He walked into the hallway, his footsteps fading as he went toward his study. The latch of his heavy brass deadbolt clicked shut a moment later.
I remained at the table, staring at the empty space where his hand had just been resting. The yellow roses on the kitchen counter seemed to lose their color in the dim light of the dining room.
Later that evening, after David had gone upstairs to read his medical journals, I went to empty the small trash bin under the kitchen sink. The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator.
