Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

on the wall let out a short, sharp ring, cutting through the quiet of the kitchen.

Sarah looked at the caller ID, her hand freezing on her silver chain.

“It is Robert,” she whispered.

I picked up the receiver on the third ring.

“Martha, how are we feeling today?” Robert asked, his voice dripping with that smooth, practiced warmth he used on prospective continue reading …