A man in a dark cashmere coat stepped through the double glass doors, the small brass bell above the frame giving a sharp double ring. He did not look at the hostess holding the laminated menus. He scanned the wooden booths with a quick, aggressive sweep of his chin until his eyes locked on mine.
Before I could set my coffee cup down, Caleb Vance slid onto the vinyl bench opposite me. He did not take off his coat. He simply folded his gloved hands on the formica table, his gold wristwatch catching the glare of the overhead fluorescent tube.
“You should have stayed in the hospital basement, Nora,” Caleb said.
His voice was a rapid, raspy burst that seemed to push the air out of the small booth. I kept my hands in my lap, my thumb slowly turning the aluminum soda can pull tab around my ring finger.
“Arthur Pendelton is representing the estate,” I said, trying to keep my voice as level as I had when I read the chart notes to the night-shift nurses. “If you have questions about the probate filing, you should call his office.”
