“Take it or leave it.”
She reached across the table and held out her hand. Not to take mine. To shake it. Like a business
deal.
“Deal,” she said.
We shook on it.
Then she said, “Now. The key.”
I had forgotten about the key. It was in my jeans pocket. I took it out. The brass key on the plain ring, worn smooth from eight years in my pocket.
“The new family moves in next week,” she said. “They’ll change the locks. That key won’t open anything anymore after Monday.”
“I know.”
“Keep it anyway,” she said. “I want you to have it. So you remember.” She closed my fingers around it again, the same way she did on Thursday. “This house was the first one that trusted you. Don’t ever forget that you were worth trusting.”
I drove home with an empty back seat. No old clothes. No dishes. No books.
