“I do trust you,” I said.

“Good,” he said, turning back to his ledger.

“Then let me get through these sales slips so I can make it home for supper.”

I drove home and hung my coat on the brass hook in the front hall.

By five thirty the sky beyond the sunroom had gone gray behind the lace curtains.

Bob’s oak rolltop desk stood in the corner of the room, buried beneath hardware store flyer proofs and unopened water bills.

I lifted his brass key ring off the wooden tray where he always emptied his pockets after work.