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

I backed off Willow Lane onto the dark township road as the rain came down harder on the windshield.

Through the parlor window of the white cottage, the lamplight glowed yellow against the glass, lighting up the framed wedding photo of Bob and Ruth hanging on the wall next to the front door.

At nine the next morning, I was standing inside the brass doors of First Community Bank on Main Street.

Donald pushed up his wire-rimmed glasses before leaning over his oak desk.

He was holding two printed ledger sheets, but he didn’t pass them to me right away.