I wanted to argue.
I wanted to shout.
I wanted to throw the keys onto the marble floor.
But then I thought about Lily’s glasses held together with tape.
I thought about my electric bill.
I thought about my children.
So I swallowed my pride.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I walked away feeling humiliated.
Every mile to the mechanic felt heavier than the last.
By the time I arrived, I felt sick.
The mechanic, an older man named Harold, greeted me as if he already knew me.
“Mrs. Whitmore called this morning.”
I handed him the paperwork.
As I did, a folded note slipped from the glove compartment.
My name was written across the front.
With trembling hands, I opened it.
The first sentence stole my breath.
“Dear Stan,
Please forgive what happened this morning.”
I read every word.
Bradley, she explained, had become obsessed with controlling her affairs. He monitored her decisions, threatened former employees, and believed anyone close to her was manipulating her for money.
If he thought we remained in contact, he would target me next.
The brooch had never been stolen.
It was hidden inside the glove compartment.
Wrapped in a handkerchief.
Then came another surprise.
Harold needed a trustworthy driver.
Mrs. Whitmore had recommended me.
