The knock came just after sunset, sharp and official. Through the small window by the door, a man in a gray suit stood waiting, his car idling at the curb. She opened the door only halfway.
"Mrs. Smith," he said, voice flat. "Agent Crane. We need to review some details about the accident again."
Her hand tightened on the door. "We have already talked, Agent. Four times. There is nothing else to say."
He hesitated, watching her face, then gave a small nod and left. The sound of the car pulling away was clean and final.
She locked the door, turned off the porch light, and leaned against the frame. He will not find anything. I erased everything. I am safe. We are safe.
When she turned, أنت was standing by the kitchen arch, quiet, curious. She smiled, calm and steady. "It was just that FBI man again," she said. "He keeps thinking he can find something new."
Dinner passed softly, the hum of the refrigerator blending with the low murmur of rain outside. Later, as she poured wine into two glasses, she wrinkled her nose and pushed hers aside.
"I do not know how you drink this stuff," she said with a small laugh. "It tastes like metal."
أنت paused, fork halfway to his mouth. Evelyn used to love that wine. She said it reminded her of home.
Too late. Do not correct yourself. Let it pass. Smile.
She smiled and changed the subject, but her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the breadbasket.
