That strange little smile finally appeared.
“Wait until she goes to bed.”
I hated that answer.
I also wanted to know what it meant.
Dinner was awkward.
Grace wasn’t.
“Wait until she goes to bed.”
She ate roast chicken and discussed her apartment repairs as though she hadn’t spent the afternoon dismantling part of our house.
Harold didn’t mention the door.
Neither did I.
That made her cheerful.
Harold didn’t mention the door.
She apparently interpreted silence as surrender.
Around nine-thirty, she stood and yawned.
“I’m exhausted.”
“I’m sure,” I muttered. “Removing hardware took effort.”
Harold kicked my ankle gently beneath the table.
“I’m exhausted.”
Grace headed upstairs.
A minute later, I heard her guest-room door close.
Then came a small, unmistakable sound.
Click.
I looked at Harold.
He kept eating.
“Did she just lock her door?”
“Yep.”
Grace headed upstairs.
I waited.
