The leather latch on Julian’s briefcase clicked twice, a sharp, empty sound that did not belong in our quiet kitchen at a quarter past six.
He turned the bag upside down over the linoleum table, letting a yellow legal pad and three black ballpoint pens slide across the clean surface.
I hung the damp dish towel over the oven handle and watched him search the pockets.
“It is not in here, Dani,” he said, his voice rising just enough to make me look up.
Julian was usually a quiet man, the kind who folded his socks before putting them in the drawer and never had to search for his keys.
“Did you check your coat pocket?” I asked.
