“I told you both yesterday I had a required client dinner downtown,” I said.

“Telling us isn’t the same thing as asking us,” he said, shutting the front door behind me with a hard click of the latch.

The front hall was pitch dark and smelled faintly of boiled onions, cold broth, and stale tea.

I went past the silent living room into the kitchen to pour a glass of water from the tap.

Eleanor sat at the far end of the oak dining table in her floral robe, cradling a heavy mug of chamomile tea in both hands.