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

“To my darling husband, with all my heart, R,” the card said.

I stood frozen beside the metal filing cabinet in the silent room.

Footsteps came across the concrete floor of the lumberyard just outside the back office door.

I eased the silver card back into its paper sleeve without shifting the brass key ring so much as an inch.

Bob came in through the doorway with a wooden tape measure in his left hand.

“Penelope,” he said, pulling up short by the coat rack.