At two that afternoon, I sat on Margaret’s stone patio with her.

My farmhouse and its driveway were just over the low boxwood hedge.

Margaret poured Earl Grey into a ceramic cup and pushed it across the wrought-iron table.

“She swiped past that list on purpose,” Margaret said.

She drummed her fingernails on the wooden arm of her chair.

“Ethan thought it was an accident,” I said.

“He thinks she’s just buried under vendor contracts.”

“That girl is about as buried as a shark in a goldfish pond, honey.”