Next to her silver hairbrush sat a rectangular cardboard box holding a pair of heavy silver electric clippers, the long black cord wound tight around the handle.

Eleanor pulled her bedroom door shut, and the latch clicked into the frame.

I stood by myself in the silent hallway, staring at Eleanor’s closed bedroom door.

The brass clock in the downstairs hall struck seven as the water in the kettle started to hiss.

Eleanor stood by the butcher-block island in her floral robe, holding a little silver spoon above her cup of peppermint tea.

On the quartz counter beside the toaster lay the green leather ledger, spread wide open in the morning light.