At nine o’clock, the hum of the yellow kitchen clock seemed louder than the rain beginning to tap against the glass windowpane.
I stood in the carpeted hallway near the telephone table, holding a stack of folded white dish towels that needed to go into the linen closet.
Through the thick oak door of the study, I heard the low murmur of Richard’s voice, a steady rise and fall that did not sound like his usual office conference calls.
He spoke in a tone I had not heard him use in years, soft and hurried, almost gentle.
I leaned slightly closer to the wood, my shoulder brushing the cold wallpaper of the hallway.
“I will take care of the deposit by Friday,” Richard whispered on the other side of the door.
I held my breath, the towels pressed hard against my chest, my thumb tracing the hem of the top towel.
“She does not suspect anything,” he said.
A floorboard creaked under my slipper as I shifted my weight, and the whispering behind the door stopped instantly.
