of forty years, Eleanor, was meticulously trimming the stems of white hydrangeas by the farmhouse sink. The morning sun caught the silver strands in her hair, casting her in a soft, angelic glow. She looked peaceful. Devoted. She looked exactly like the woman this city believed she was.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I kept my voice flat, professional.
Eleanor paused her shears. She didn’t turn around immediately, but the tilt of her head changed. “Who was that, Richard?”
“The pharmacy,” I lied smoothly, picking up my mug. “There’s a backorder on my blood pressure prescription. I need to go sort it out in person.”
She turned then. Her eyes, usually a warm hazel, narrowed for a fraction of a second. Yesterday, I would have thought she was just concerned about my health. Today, with Tony’s warning echoing in my ear, that brief narrowing looked entirely different. It looked