Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table

Helen stood up, grabbed her purse, and slung the strap over her shoulder.

“I have to get back to your father,” she said.

“He’s expecting me for lunch.”

I didn’t try to stop her.

“Drive safe,” I said.

Helen walked out the front door without looking back.

The little brass bell above the glass chimed.

I sat alone at the table.