The Doorbell and the Look I Won’t Forget
The bell rang in that clipped, demanding rhythm only Catherine used. She swept inside with a bakery box and a criticism.
“Cupcakes,” she announced, gliding past me. “I imagine you’ve been feeding him processed food again.”
Kenneth stared into his coffee — gray, distracted. On a normal day he would’ve softened her barbs with a joke. Not today. Something was off, and neither would name it.
