Nathan guided Eleanor out of the kitchen and down the short hallway toward the guest room.

I stood by the counter, my chest tight, listening to the quiet murmur of his voice.

I heard the guest room door click shut.

A few minutes later, Nathan came back into the kitchen, adjusting his watch.

“I have an early surgery,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

“I need to leave now.”

“We need to talk about her, Nathan,” I said.

“About what she said about the old house.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” he said, grabbing his car keys from the counter.

“She has advanced dementia.”

“Her mind plays tricks on her.”

He leaned in to kiss my cheek, but I pulled back slightly.

His lips brushed the corner of my jaw, cold and dry.

“I’ll be home late tonight,” he said.

He walked out the front door, the heavy oak closing with a firm thud.

I watched his black sedan back out of the driveway through the kitchen window.

The house became entirely silent, except for the hum of the refrigerator.