Patrick dropped his leather briefcase on the granite counter, right on top of the sliced loaf of bread I’d just put out.

A thick paper file poked out of the side pocket, a dark blue stamp printed across its tab.

I reached over to move the folder before the butter on the cutting board could smear the edge of the paper.

“Don’t touch that,” Patrick said.

His voice was clipped and sharp, like a coin dropped onto a tile floor.

He pushed the folder back down into the briefcase and straightened his gold cufflinks with two quick flicks of his thumb.

I drew my hand back and touched the silver filigree locket that rested against my collarbone.

“I was just keeping the butter off the edge,” I said.

“That’s a Vanguard Global file, Serena,” he said.

“It’s worth more than this whole kitchen.”

He zipped the leather closed and never raised his eyes to me while he talked.

“Are you seeing them today?” I asked.

“I’m seeing people who actually understand balance sheets,” he said.

He lifted his coat off the back of the dining chair and headed for the front door without finishing his coffee.

“There’s leftover quiche for lunch,” I said to his back.

The heavy front door clicked closed, and the lock turned from the outside.

I stood by myself in the kitchen while the kettle kept humming on the stove.

By ten o’clock the dishes were clean and stacked in the wooden rack beside the sink.