Clara was outside at five fifty-eight.
Two minutes early, which for a six o’clock departure was essentially Clara’s version of being exactly on time, and the car was already running when I came through the side entrance with my bag and the notebook and a coffee I had made at five-fifteen because sleep had stopped being a realistic possibility sometime around three.
The morning was dark and cool and the street outside the Whitmore house was empty in the specific way of a city that had not yet fully committed to being awake. One streetlight was doing its faithful amber work at the corner. A delivery truck moved at the far end of the block. Everything else was the particular held stillness of before.
I got in.
Clara looked at me. Said nothing. Pulled away from the kerb.
We drove through
