Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name
“Donald said it belongs to a mortgage account down in Westfall,” I said.
Clara tapped her silver pen on her yellow notepad as she gazed out at the yellow leaves strewn over the front lawn.
“Westfall’s twenty miles straight down Highway Fourteen,” Clara whispered, leaning in even closer until I could hear the rustle of her linen jacket.
“If a man backs out of this driveway at six thirty every night, he hits the Westfall town line at seven o’clock sharp.”
“Bob told me Uncle John’s house was five miles off on Maple Street,” I said.
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