“Save me from what?”
“You’ll find out when it matters,” she replied.
I held the box on my lap during the entire bus ride home, and for the first time in my life, I let myself cry without checking who might see.
I left her house feeling truly loved for the first time, unaware it would be the last time I ever saw her alive.
The following Sunday, I stayed at work longer than planned, smiling through a customer slowly counting coins.
I wanted to bring Marianne fresh bread from the bakery near the bus stop. I called to say I was running late, but a man answered.
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“Who is this?” he barked.
I froze. “I’m a friend of Marianne’s. I visit every Sunday. Who are you?”
“I was trying to reach Marianne. Is she alright?”
A bitter laugh came through the phone. “I’m her nephew, Arthur, and you’re the little con artist who fooled my aunt. Congratulations. She’s dead.”
