By eight that night, the house was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator motor in the corner.

David was at the kitchen counter in his white dress shirt, rinsing our dinner dishes under a steady stream of hot water.

His gold wedding band clicked in rhythm against the glass rim of a serving bowl as he scrubbed it with a green sponge.

Click, click, click on the glass.

I sat at the laminate kitchen table with my lap desk, pretending to sort through October’s water and electric bills.

“Did work take you anywhere near the south side of town this morning?” I asked lightly, keeping my tone casual.