Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
I pulled the white plastic bag from the bin, and as I did, a small piece of paper caught my eye. It had slipped between the bag and the plastic lining of the can.
A crumpled square of yellow paper sat on the bottom of the bin.
I picked it up, smoothing the paper against my knee with the palm of my hand.
Written in David’s neat, hurried script was the name of the Blue Heron Lake Restaurant.
Below it, he had written Saturday, 6:00 PM, followed by two words: Outside corner.
And below that, a single name: Marcus.
The yellow paper felt dry and cheap against my skin. The ink was dark blue, written with his expensive fountain pen.
He had already planned the entire evening before he even bought the roses. The bouquet was not a gesture of love; it was the bait for a trap.
The tender words in the kitchen, the trip down memory lane, the quiet concern, it was all a script to get me into that dining room. He wanted me in a crowded place, under the eyes of our neighbors, where any moment of confusion could be observed and recorded.
