“You’re wearing his shirt,” she said, looking at the frayed cuff by my wrist.

I pulled the sleeve down, feeling the faded blue cotton.

Paul had worn it on Saturdays when he sharpened chisels at his workbench.

“He wore that faded blue shirt the morning he brought the bank draft to my kitchen,” Rebecca said, smoothing both hands down her lap.

My thumb found the hollow of my left collarbone and pressed the bone until it ached.

“Why didn’t he tell me?