William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I took my driver’s license back from the counter and walked out into the cool autumn air.
The smell of damp oak leaves followed me into the house when I opened the front door at seven o’clock.
The hallway was dark, but a single lamp was lit in the living room, casting a yellow glow over the sofa.
Marsha was sitting there, her manicured nails tapping a steady, irritating rhythm against her leather purse.
“I need the joint checkbook,” she said, not looking up as I walked into the room. “My mother paid for Owen’s groceries and some new shoes this weekend, and we need to reimburse her.”
I did not move toward the desk where the checkbook was kept in the top drawer.
“I looked up Sue’s nursing record today, Marsha,” I said, standing near the doorway.
Marsha stopped tapping her nails, her thumb hovering over the glass screen of her phone.
“Why would you do that?” she asked, her voice dropping into a flat, sharp tone.
“Her license was suspended in two thousand eighteen,” I said. “The state registry says it was for medical neglect.”
