Douglas Fenn lived in a white house in Westport Connecticut with a garden that had gone slightly wild at the edges in the way gardens went wild when their owners had stopped having the energy to maintain them fully but hadn't stopped caring entirely.
Aria drove up with Rebecca on a Wednesday morning — two hours from the city, the highway giving way to the particular quiet of coastal Connecticut, the houses getting larger and further apart, the trees still holding their early spring green.
Rebecca had said very little on the drive. She was a person who prepared internally — Aria had learned that over two months of working together. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was professional.
Aria looked out the window and thought about what she was going to say to a seventy-three year old man
