to.
But he remained in the car.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, he watched Arthur enter.
The door closed.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
Adrian felt increasingly ashamed of himself.
He was spying now.
There was no other word for it.
He was about to leave when the curtains in the upstairs front room shifted.
Marissa appeared near the window.
Arthur stood several feet behind her.
A lamp illuminated the small room.
Marissa was holding something.
An envelope.
Even from across the street, Adrian could see its color.
Blue.
Not bright blue.
Old, faded blue.
She held it with both hands.
Arthur said something.
Marissa shook her head.
Then she looked down at the envelope.
A moment later, she pressed it against her chest.
Adrian forgot the rain.
Forgot the money.
Forgot everything except one memory.
His grandfather’s study.
Adrian had been twenty-three.
Edmund Whitmore had been dying, although no one
