“I brought you some soup,” I said, passing the jar over the threshold.

“I didn’t expect to see Evan’s car in your driveway.”

Mrs.

Carter smiled, her gray hair pinned up in her usual tidy bun.

“He comes by every morning at seven,” she said, taking the jar carefully in her hands.

“He brings fresh coffee in foam cups before he starts making his phone calls.”

“Every single morning?” I asked.

“Ever since the day he got to town,” she said, stepping back into the warm hall to let me in.