“Ma’am,” he said evenly. “We need to ask you a few questions about Mrs. Higgins.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“She p*ssed away this morning.”
Everything went quiet.
“I… I just helped her yesterday,” I whispered.
His expression didn’t change.
“We know,” he said. “That’s EXACTLY why we’re here.”
My knees began to shake.
“Did I do something wrong? I only mowed her lawn—”
“Ma’am.” His voice softened for the first time. “Nobody’s in trouble. I’ve been the sheriff in this county nineteen years and I have never once had to do what I’m about to do.”
He pointed at my MAILBOX.
“Mrs. Higgins came to my office on Tuesday afternoon. Four o’clock. She walked in — eighty-two years old, in the heat — and she made me promise that if anything happened to her, I’d come here personally, first thing, before the family, before anyone, and I’d stand right here and make sure you opened that box yourself.”
“Why?”
“She said you’d throw it away if it came in the regular mail,” he said. “She said, and I’m quoting a de*d woman word for word, ‘That girl won’t take help. You have to hand it to her with a badge on.'”
My hands were trembling so badly I could barely lift the lid.
Inside was a thick manila envelope with my name on it in shaky handwriting.
And underneath the envelope — a set of house keys on a ring, with a paper tag.
I opened the envelope.
And the moment I saw the first page —
I SCREAMED.
PART 2
The first page was a satisfaction of mortgage.
I had to read the words four times before they arranged themselves into meaning, because I’d been staring at foreclosure notices for so long that I’d forgotten there was an opposite document.
Property at 14 Rundle Road.
