Chapter 5: Boilerplate

Desmond's silver sedan turned into the lane at twelve-fifteen, three hours before anyone was due.

I was sitting on the porch steps with a glass of lemonade and the folder on my knees.

Libby sat beside me, and she kept her eyes on the gravel.

My neighbor was raking his lawn across the road, though it had been raked that morning.

His sister had come out to water a pot of geraniums that was already wet.

Desmond got out of the car in his good blue shirt and waved with his whole arm.

"There she is!"

He carried a briefcase in one hand and a bouquet of grocery-store roses in the other.

"Hey, sweetheart. I thought I'd surprise you. Early bird, right?"

I didn't answer.

He kissed the air near my cheek, and I let him do that too.

Then he went up the steps and put his key in the lock.

It didn't turn.

He tried it again, and then a third time, jiggling the handle.

"Huh," he said. "Sticky. Did the humidity get it?"

"I changed the locks," I said.

He laughed.

"Very funny."

"I'm not joking. Your golf shoes are on the porch swing."

He looked at the swing.

The shoes sat in a neat pair, and Kenzie's pink tablet cover rested on top of them.

His smile stayed on, but it got thinner.

"Sue, what's going on?"

"I'd like to know why you told a realtor this was your house."

The roses lowered an inch.

"What realtor?"

"Her name is on the sign she carried back to her car this morning. She showed me the listing, Desmond. She showed me your signature."

He glanced at the neighbors.

Across the road the rake had stopped.

"Let's go inside," he said quietly. "We can talk about this like adults."

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