The next morning broke with a cruel cheerfulness, the birds singing as if the world hadn’t ended the day before. I sat by Joyce’s window, nursing a cup of coffee, watching the neighborhood wake up. I felt detached, a ghost haunting the edges of the living world. I wondered what Robert was doing.
Was he frantic? Was he relieved? Had he already called her? The questions spun in a loop, a torture of my own making. I watched the street, desperate for a distraction, and that was when I saw him. A figure was walking up the garden path, not Robert, but a man I didn’t recognize. He was dressed formally, moving with a grim determination that sent a fresh wave of anxiety rippling through me. He carried a thick envelope in his hand, clutching it tightly.
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