Chapter 9

“Pardon me.”

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“Date of birth?”

“June 1, 1965.”

She clicked a few keys, “Oh,” and her tone suddenly changed to something between pity and disbelief, like, “Aww, poor man,” or “How could someone your size be the victim of spousal abuse?”

“What happened to your foot?” she asked, her smile tinged with concern.

Geoffrey remembered her from that night. She’d brought in paperwork he had to sign. “Anywhere near the bottom is fine,” she’d said, correctly assuming someone with mere slits for eyes couldn’t find a dotted line. Though recollections came in bits and pieces only, her British accent instantly resonated. Now that Geoffrey could see her, he thought Holly was strikingly beautiful. Full-figured, with a hairstyle from the generation she likely graduated high school—the same as Geoffrey, he presumed—and dark eyeliner accentuating light gray eyes, she was stunning.

“I kicked a rock,” he told her, his lips twisted from embarrassment.