At first, the name meant nothing.
Twenty-seven years is a long time, and memory tends to keep emotions more faithfully than names.
Then I remembered the pharmacy awning.
The wet silver hair.
The shaking hands.
The ten-dollar bill.
“Providence,” I whispered. “The rainy night.”
Mr. Pierce’s expression softened.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know about that?”
He rested one hand on the wooden box.
“Mr. Hayes spent years trying to locate you.”
I could only shake my head.
“Why?”
The attorney sat across from me and explained that Walter had passed away peacefully several months earlier after reaching an advanced age, leaving behind detailed instructions concerning several personal belongings and financial gifts.
Among those instructions was my name.
Caroline Brooks.
A teenage mother with infant twins.
Providence.
December 1999.
Ten dollars.
He remembered everything.
Mr. Pierce pushed the box gently toward me.
“He asked that you open this yourself.”
