Her answer unsettled me more than any creditor’s threat.
“Why?” I asked. “Everyone else left.”
Rosa folded her hands over her apron.
“Because when a house collapses,” she said, “someone has to search through the ruins.”
Before I could ask what she meant, my phone rang.
It was Harold Bennett, an old college friend, speaking with the bright, fake warmth of a man performing kindness.
“Edward! Come to dinner tomorrow,” he said. “My wife keeps asking about you.”
I nearly refused.
Pity has a smell.
I recognized it immediately.
But after I hung up, Rosa looked at me from the kitchen doorway.
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