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

Bob got to his feet before his lawyer had a chance to adjust his glasses.

“My wife Penelope signed those forms at our kitchen table back in November,” Bob said, using his brisk hardware store voice.

“She knew we were refinancing to cover emergency costs for my uncle.”

Clara leaned toward my shoulder and tapped her silver pen twice on her notepad.

“He has no idea what Donald’s got in that briefcase,” Clara whispered.

“Mr.

Vance,” Commissioner Miller said, peering at Bob over his spectacles.