He smiled again, that warm, easy smile that had once made me feel safe.

Then he left.

At one o’clock, I met his mother at the Starlight Bistro.

The private dining room smelled of lemon wax and old carpet.

Eleanor sat beneath a brass chandelier, tapping her fingers against a laminated menu.

“Ninety-four dollars for prime rib,” she said.

“Absurd.

We’re organizing a rehearsal dinner, not hosting the governor.”

“The children would rather have chicken,” I said.

“That would help with the budget.”