For Seven Years I Sent Forty Thousand Dollars Every January, Until Emma Finally Spoke

Down on Main Street, a delivery truck backed into the alley beside the diner.

The mail carrier was sorting envelopes on the corner.

“Listen here,” I said to the window.

“Where did my money go?”

Howard picked up his desk phone and dialed a local number.

“Carl Gable is meeting us at my car,” Howard said.

“We’re going for a drive to Oakridge.”

Howard drove his unmarked gray sedan down County Road 9.