The Wife's Explanation
I confronted her with the receipt. "Sara, went to the West Side gas station today?" Her hands, folding laundry, stilled. A flicker of panic crossed her face, quickly masked. "Oh, passing through. Tank was low. Filled it up." She didn't look up. "What were you doing over there?" I pressed. She gathered the folded clothes, heading to the bedroom. "Had something to take care of. Forgot to mention it." The door clicked shut. What "something"? Why the dead phone? Her forced nonchalance felt heavier than an admission.
Father's Evasion
A few days later, delivering tools to Father, I dropped it casually. "Oh, Dad, Sara mentioned she was near here the other day. Needed gas." Bending over his toolbox, his back visibly stiffened. Slowly straightening, he snatched an old rag and scrubbed furiously at grease on his hands, head down. "Yeah? Didn't notice. Maybe... maybe she went to the community center for something." His words rushed out, unnaturally light, his scrubbing motions overly vigorous, knuckles white. This wasn't his usual demeanor. He was hiding something.
The Garage Discovery
Later, helping him clear garage clutter, old seasonal clothes piled in a corner. Moving a heavy plastic bin, the lid slipped. Among folded shirts lay a conspicuously elegant box. I recognized the brand—an expensive men's cologne. Compelled, I opened it. Inside nestled a dark green bottle. Lifting the lid's inner flap, a line of delicate handwriting leaped out: "For dear Robert, wishing you brighter days. — Sara". The script—the same I saw daily on her grocery lists—was unmistakable. An extravagant gift, an intimate salutation... My palms turned ice-cold.
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