A tall man in uniform approached, broad-shouldered, serious, the kind of person who makes you want to stand up straighter.
“Are you Ariel?” The sheriff’s voice was clipped, but not unfriendly. His eyes shifted to the group of neighbors. “I’m Sheriff Holt. May we come in for a moment?”
I opened the door, my heart pounding. The living room suddenly seemed small. The radio on her shoulder crackled as her gaze moved over the family photos and the pile of unopened mail.
“Is everything alright?” I managed to say.
He lowered his voice. “I wish that were the case. Mrs. Higgins collapsed on her porch early this morning. A neighbor saw her and called. The paramedics arrived first, but…” He broke off.
“May we come in for a moment?”
“She didn’t survive,” I murmured, sinking back into the sofa.
Holt nodded gently. “I’m sorry. I know you helped her yesterday; a neighbor told us. And we checked her porch camera to confirm her last movements. We saw her put something in your mailbox just before she sat down for the last time.”
I stared at her. “She… put something in my mailbox? What?”
He nodded.
I gripped the sofa, my mind racing. “What could she possibly have left for me?”
Holt gave me a small, sad smile. “Let’s discover it together.”
“I know you helped her yesterday.”
***
Outside, a neighbor’s kid was riding back and forth on the sidewalk, glancing at my house. Mrs. Pearson, across the street, was standing on her porch with her arms crossed.
My hands trembled as I fumbled with the mailbox key. It felt heavier than usual, its sharp edges biting into my palm. I opened the box, my heart in my throat.
Inside was a thick paper envelope with my name written in neat handwriting. Holt gestured for me to take it. I pulled it out; another, thinner envelope was tucked behind it, bearing the bank’s logo and the words “PAID IN
