“Get some rest tonight, Ms.

Whitcomb.”

At eight that night the living room smelled of steam and hot starch.

Helen stood at the wooden ironing board, running the iron down the sleeve of my dark blue wool suit jacket.

“The forecast calls for rain until tomorrow afternoon,” Helen said, standing the iron up on its heel.

“Your shoes are going to get soaked walking over from the outdoor parking deck.”

“We’ll park in the lower garage by the elevator,” I said, sitting at the little kitchen table.