“Where’s my solid oak bed frame?” I asked.

“Vance brought in their king mattress set on Friday,” Evelyn said.

“Your solid oak frame is stored down in the corner of the unfinished basement.

We wrapped your mattress in heavy plastic sheeting so it won’t get dusty.”

I looked past the kitchen island toward the sliding glass doors that led out to the back patio.

A man came in through the slider carrying two greasy paper barbecue plates piled with charred pork ribs.

Vance, thirty, Chloe’s husband of fourteen months, had on a dark polo shirt and boat shoes with no socks.