“Don’t you know?” he asks in reply.
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked,” I say.
He chuckles a little. “Well. You are the journalist, Esther. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Someone calls out for him, I hear it through his line. “I have to go. Talk soon.” He hangs up.
For a while longer, I sit in my car and stare at my phone. I built myself up to ask that question and braced for any response. I did not anticipate a non-answer.
Maybe I should have.
My daughters are going to a friend’s house for the night, so rather than to return to my quiet room to sit alone for the evening, I drive to Cynthia’s. She is already dressed in a shimmering purple dress that makes my work clothes look positively drab in comparison.
“You’re just in time,” she says and hooks her arm with mine.
“Where are w
