“Your mother spent her last three years losing her keys and sure the neighbors were stealing her mail,” Bob said, quietly taking a bite of pork chop.

“You’re starting to sound exactly like her.”

I stood next to my chair, watching him eat as though the sheet of paper between us didn’t exist.

“Bob, is there a house on Willow Lane?” I asked.

Bob set his fork down on the porcelain rim of his plate with a sharp click.

He checked his wristwatch and shoved his chair back.

“It’s six thirty,” Bob said, getting up and snatching his key ring off the sideboard.