At my sister’s name, the words from the corridor returned: You and I had a deal.

“What did Aunt Connie say?”

“She said Leticia was rushing the arrangements, that something wasn’t right.

She sounded scared.”

I wanted to believe my sister.

Connie and I had inherited our father’s stubbornness and our mother’s willingness to fight over anything from property taxes to where to spend Thanksgiving.

But we had also survived my first wife’s death together.

She had helped Valerie with algebra, taught her to drive, and carried a casserole to our house every Wednesday for six months.