He had not taken off his canvas jacket, and the smell of industrial grease from the machine shop hung in the small room, mixing with the scent of my radiator steam.
“She was talking about a twenty-year plan, Noah,” I said, clearing my throat before I spoke. “She told Grandma Ruth that Elena didn’t run away.”
Noah did not move. He rubbed his temples with both thumbs, his eyes fixed on the salt shaker between us.
“Clara exaggerates,” Noah said. “She always has.”
“She said Elena died in a hospice,” I said, tapping my index finger against my right knee. “She said she took the money to buy the brick house.”
Noah looked up, his forehead creasing. His short, declarative sentences always sounded like he was reading an inspection report.
“That is impossible,” Noah said. “The house was bought with Josh’s inheritance.”
“That is what she told us,” I said. “But Grandma Ruth didn’t contradict her. She just sat there and let Clara brag about it.”
