Or so everyone believed.
His car had been found submerged in Eagle Lake last November, pulled from the murky depths with the driver’s side door open and no body inside.
The police had declared it an accidental drowning after three weeks of searching. The current was strong, they’d said. Bodies sometimes never surface.
I’d buried an empty coffin.
“We should get the check,” Diane announced, standing abruptly.
She always did that when the conversation turned uncomfortable.
“Timothy, come help me at the counter.”
I watched them walk away, their heads bent together in whispered conference. They did that a lot lately.
Talked about me when they thought I couldn’t hear.
At 64, I’d discovered that being a widow made people treat you like you were made of glass—fragile, and liable to shatter at any moment.
