“Thank you for checking, Mrs.

Gable.”

“I’m truly sorry, dear,” the older woman said softly.

When Caroline unlocked the door of the Elmwood Avenue flat at eight o’clock, the rooms were dark and smelled of cold rain and burnt toast.

Caroline turned on the single overhead bulb in the kitchen and laid four unpaid utility notices in a straight line across the wooden table.

There was the electric bill for thirty-two dollars, the gas bill for eighteen, the city water charge, and the winter heating oil invoice.

Grant walked into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, carrying his dark leather briefcase in one hand and his wet umbrella in the other.