But Robert wasn’t a man who casually lied.
And when someone who almost never lies suddenly starts doing it, even about something small, you wonder what larger truth the lie is protecting.
So Wednesday night, I watched him.
At exactly nine thirty, he got up.
He pulled a half-full trash bag from the kitchen can.
I told him I was tired and went upstairs.
Instead of getting ready for bed, I stood behind the bedroom curtain and watched the backyard.
Robert came through the back door carrying the bag.
He walked toward our bins.
Then he passed them.
My stomach tightened.
He continued beyond the garage, past the hedge separating our yard from the neighbors’, and into the narrow alley behind the houses.
Nobody usually went back there except on collection day.
I stood gripping the curtain.
Twelve minutes later, Robert returned.
He walked slowly.
His hands were in his pockets.
