through a customer slowly counting coins.
I wanted to bring Marianne fresh bread from the bakery near the bus stop. I called to say I was running late, but a man answered.
“Who is this?” he barked.
I froze. “I’m a friend of Marianne’s. I visit every Sunday. Who are you?”
“I was trying to reach Marianne. Is she alright?”
A bitter laugh came through the phone. “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
