“I was trying to reach Marianne. Is she alright?”
A bitter laugh cut through the line. “I’m her nephew, Arthur, and you’re the little con artist who fooled my aunt. Congratulations. She’s dead.”
The bread bag slipped from my fingers. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me. Two nights ago. And before you start crying crocodile tears, let me save you the trouble. She left you absolutely nothing.”
“I don’t want anything,” I whispered. “I just want to know what happened.”
The line went dead.
I don’t remember walking home. I remember the door closing behind me and my knees hitting the kitchen tile, and the small sound that came out of my throat when I realized I would never sit at that table again.
I had never told her how much she meant to me, not once. And now I’d never get the chance.
I crawled to the corner where I had set the tin sewing box on the floor that morning, too tired to put it on the shelf. My hands shook as I pulled it into my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I told the box, because there was no one else left to tell. “I should have said it. I should have said it a hundred times.”
The metal was cool against my chest. I rocked forward, pressing my forehead to the lid.
That was when my thumb caught on something underneath.