That morning, I sat at my desk, staring at another overdue notice, trying to figure out what I could delay. That’s when the door opened. A man in a charcoal suit stepped inside and walked toward my cubicle.
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“Are you Nora?” he asked when he stopped beside me.
“Yes,” I responded skeptically.
He stepped forward and placed a small, worn box on my desk. “My name is Carter,” he said. “I represent the estate of Arthur.”
The name struck me instantly. The man I’d met for 30 seconds in 1998. I’d never forgotten him and had always wondered what happened to him.
“He spent years trying to find you,” Carter said. “He asked me to give this to you personally. He left instructions. This was meant for you alone.”
