David didn’t turn around, but the steady scrubbing sound stopped at once.

“I was in back-to-back quarterly reviews at the corporate office in Milwaukee until noon,” he said.

“I thought I saw a car that looked like yours near Maple Street around nine,” I said.

The tap kept running into the sink, filling the kitchen with the warm, heavy smell of dish soap.

“I was in a conference room on the fifth floor all morning,” he said, his voice sinking into that quiet, flat whisper he used when he felt cornered.

“It was odd,” I said softly, smoothing down the corner of an electric bill.