In October, My Husband Left a Manila Envelope on Our Kitchen Table and Walked Out Into the Rain
We pushed through the double brass doors onto the high stone steps outside, where the bright October sun hit the pavement.
Arthur Vance came out through the side entrance three paces away, accompanied by a heavyset attorney in a navy pinstripe suit.
Arthur looked frail in his sagging grey jacket, his head bowed as he stared down at the concrete steps.
His attorney stopped beside the stone handrail, watching us with a sharp, calculating expression.
“Mrs.
Whitman,” the attorney called out.
I stopped on the landing, keeping my arm looped through Greg’s elbow.
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