It began with the toilet seat. It was down. Roger never left the toilet seat down– it had been one of the sore points with Joyce before she divorced him. He squinted early morning eyes and propped the seat back up.
His cell phone beeped as he slid a razor down his cheeks. Roger glanced at the heading –a message from Joyce’s sister. He finished shaving, wiped his face, and looked at the text, a broadcast to about twenty people. Joyce was dead. He called the sister without putting the phone back down.