“My garden?” Eleanor said. “Mike, I already told you—” “The doctor wants them,” he cut in. “Flowers. Leaves. Soil. Anything Maxine might have touched.” Another pause. Shorter this time. “I’ll be there,” she said. “Of course I will.”
She arrived forty minutes later, coat buttoned wrong, hair pulled back too tightly, clutching a reusable grocery bag filled with neatly labeled containers. She looked shaken, but composed—like someone determined to prove a point. “I brought everything,” Eleanor said, setting the bag down carefully on the counter. Her voice was brisk, but not sharp.