At nine-forty, he came back.
No flowers.
No chocolate.
Nothing.
“Every store was slammed,” he said.
For some reason, that sentence bothered me more than all the Saturday meetings.
Three days later, I hired a private investigator.
His name was Grant Ellis.
Former police detective.
Late fifties.
The kind of man who spoke in short sentences and never wasted one.
“I don’t want drama,” I told him.
“I only want the truth.”
Grant studied me for several seconds.
“Those are usually the same thing.”
Two weeks later, he called.
“Mrs. Harper, can you meet me?”
“Tell me now.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Grant.”
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