“David lies so you won’t see what’s right in front of your face,” Sarah said.

She pressed down on the gas and eased us back into the main stream of traffic heading toward town.

At one in the afternoon we were sitting in a small square booth in the back corner of a quiet diner two miles past the county line.

I spread three slips of paper on the Formica table between my teacup and Sarah’s coffee mug.

“Last night he talked about the mortgage papers on the phone while I was upstairs in the guest room,” I said.