My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
He closed his hand over the watch and slid it back into his pocket.
“We should go, Mia,” he said. “The lights in the study just went out.”
I shifted the car into reverse and backed down the long, dark driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires. The headlights of the sedan cut through the dark, wet pavement of the highway as we turned toward the city.
The tires had barely stopped rolling in my narrow gravel driveway before Christopher was out of the passenger seat, his boots crunching on the frost-damp leaves. We walked up the wooden steps to my back door in the gray light of early morning, neither of us speaking. Inside, the small kitchen smelled of old coffee and cold oil. I set the blue folder on the laminate table next to the toaster and did not take off my coat.
“My mother keeps her records in order,” I said, my voice barely louder than the hum of the old refrigerator. “She always said that a clean desk was the sign of a clear conscience.”
