I looked at the passenger seat where the lilies lay wrapped in butcher paper. There was a blue envelope tucked into the stems, addressed to Clara in my own neat handwriting.
I wondered if she would even open it before she complained about the cost of the flowers. Forty-two dollars was a lot of money for a graphic designer who was still living on freelance projects and coffee.
A curtain moved in the front window. It was Grandma Ruth, her pale face appearing for a second behind the lace before disappearing back into the dark living room.
She lived in a small cottage on Elm Lane, but lately she spent most of her days at Clara’s house, sitting in the kitchen like an old piece of furniture that had been moved but never unpacked.
I turned off the ignition. The sudden quiet of the car felt heavier than the engine noise.
