The next morning, Michael found a folded envelope tucked into Sarah’s purse. Inside was a stack of twenties and a note in unfamiliar handwriting: For the week—don’t worry about it. He shoved it back quickly, heart pounding. The intimacy of the gesture felt like a violation.
At the grocery store, the clerk smiled warmly. “Running errands again? He usually comes on Fridays.” Michael’s blood chilled. “Who?” The woman blinked at his tone, backpedaling. “Oh—must have been a neighbor. Sorry.” But her words echoed all the way home. Someone had been standing in his place.