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book club was his idea. A transition to new beginnings. Last month we brought in the new member, Rena, age twenty-nine. With Rena, our only African-American, our ranks swelled to seven—three women and four men.
    However, now we were six.

CHAPTER SIX
    A t home the first thing I saw was the blinking red light on my answering machine. This time I didn’t hesitate to push the button.
    The first was Abby. “Okay, Hollis. I called a special meeting of the club for tomorrow evening. Sorry for the short notice, but it was the only night I could get the library space. I’m not sure who’s going to show up, but Richard agreed we should all get together. There’ll be at least three of us there. Since this was your idea, don’t you dare tell me you can’t come. Call me on my cell if you want to talk this evening. Otherwise, we can talk tomorrow or I’ll see you there.”
    A smile crept across my face. Good. Now we could sort things out.
    Next message.
    â€œHey, it’s me again. We have to talk. You’re in danger and I can help. Becky, I know you hate my guts, but I’ve never stopped loving you. You’ve got to talk to me. It has always been only you. We didn’t break up because of another woman. Remember—”
    I hit delete.
    Danger, what kind of danger could I be in?
    On the other hand, even though it had been five years since I saw him, I knew Bill always put himself first. He was likely the one in danger. What was his connection to Rory?
    Despite protestations to the contrary, Bill was only interested in Bill. I knew, too, that I had to be prepared for him to show up on my doorstep. If he’d gotten this far, somehow he’d find me.

    The next morning I tried not to think about Bill’s message. I wrestled with calling and telling him I’d be blocking his calls. I didn’t want him bothering my family. Still, if he’d gotten involved with Rory’s mess, he would have to resolve it on his own. I didn’t think Bill had it in him to kill, but he had to prove it to the police. I was determined not to get caught up in his drama.
    Resolved to have a couple of hours without thoughts of Rory’s murder or Bill, I checked out of the office. Once a week, or sometimes twice a week, I visited and assisted at the San Lucian Senior Residence & Community Center. For the past two years, I had helped the seniors complete Social Security forms, write complaint letters to recalcitrant merchants and draft wills. I even bought them special occasion cards to send to friends and family. It started when an eager coworker who wanted to “give back” during the Christmas season talked me into going with her. After she left to go to the East Coast with her new husband, I continued on. Now I had to admit I was hooked.
    I made it a habit to precede my trip to the center with a stop at the bakery.
    â€œHere’s your order of gluten-free, dairy-free sweet rolls for the center.” The bakery clerk passed three pink boxes over to me. “I added a couple of our new unhealthy cherry cake donuts.”
    I gave her a smile, gathered the boxes, and thanked her.
    In order to keep the cost for resident care modest, the center did not invest in renovations, and the physical facilities had become faded, tired and outdated. Many seniors still feeling the cold opted to wear several layers of clothing, so they kept the thermostat turned up. As a result, the center was sweltering inside.
    â€œHoney, put those pastries on the counter. We’ve all been waiting for you—’specially the older ones.” Tiny Collins pointed me toward the large community room. Tiny was at least two hundred pounds and had to be in her late seventies. She once told me she and her husband had owned a restaurant in Oakland on Grand Avenue. Her fog-gray hair was secured in a waist-length ponytail. Horn-rimmed glasses rested on the top of her head. Another pair hung around her