“Why did he get off there?” Leo asked, his voice trembling. “There are no houses.”
“I do not know,” I said, slipping the note into my coat pocket. “Sometimes people have to walk.”
I held the gray handkerchief up to the dim light of the overhead bulb. In the corner, stitched in faded gray thread, were the initials M.V.
My hand stayed in my pocket, my fingers tracing the letters over and over as the bus rumbled through the dark hills. I tried to tell myself it was a mistake, that the man had mistaken me for someone else, but the name Arthur was written clearly on the yellow paper.
Arthur Sterling was my father-in-law, and he was supposed to be dying in his bed at the family estate in Pine Ridge.
The driver called out the stop for Pine Ridge over a crackling speaker.
We walked down the metal steps into the damp evening air, the smell of rotting pine needles and wet asphalt hitting us immediately.
