My hands went to the cracked plastic rim of the Buick’s steering wheel.

I wrapped my fingers around the cold vinyl and squeezed until my knuckles went white.

I pressed my right hand flat on my breastbone and set my heavy ring of house keys on the granite counter beside the kitchen island.

David didn’t take off his charcoal wool work jacket.

He came out of the back hall, took a dark metal ballpoint pen from his breast pocket and clicked the end twice with his thumb.

“Friday’s off,” he said.