Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

I took the key to Clara’s sedan off the edge of the table.

“Where are you headed before noon?” Clara asked.

“To the flower shop on Willow Lane,” I said.

“He built two whole houses out of lies, Clara, and tomorrow I’m going to knock the foundation out from under both of them.”

Clara made no move to stop me.

I drove south on Route 14 in the bright morning light, staying twenty miles under the speed limit until the green Westfall sign came up beside the highway.

The Westfall Florist Shop sat two blocks off the town square, its glass door plastered with paper autumn leaves and tiny gold bows.