He lifted both hands. "I'm just the messenger."
I checked the time.
5:18 p.m.
Fourth Street Park was 15 minutes away.
I should have been angry enough to go home.
Instead, I ran to my car. The entire drive, my brain invented explanations.
He was married.
That was the obvious one.
Maybe his wife had found out.
Maybe he'd spent the whole year planning some elaborate confession.
Maybe he was one of those men who enjoyed turning ordinary interactions into psychological experiments.
By the time I reached 4th Street Park, I'd mentally accused him of at least five crimes.
I ran toward the clock tower.
5:37 p.m.
Nobody.
"Seriously?"
A man walking his dog looked at me.
"Sorry."
I walked around the tower.
Then I saw another envelope attached under the metal railing.
EMILY.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
I opened it.
"You once told me you hate hearing the ending before you understand the middle."
Technically, I'd said that about mystery novels.
I kept reading.
"So here's the middle."
"The day we met, I had come from an appointment at St. Matthew's Hospital."
I stopped. The park suddenly seemed quieter.
I read on.
"Two days earlier, doctors had found something during a scan."
"They didn't know enough yet for me to explain it properly."
"I was scared."
"I didn't tell you because for those three hours, I didn't want to be the person everyone was worried about."
"I wanted to be the guy arguing with a stranger about pigeons."
My stomach tightened.
The next paragraph was shorter.
