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“Where’d you pick it up?”
“Just came to the main office of my company.”
“Didtheysay who it was from?”
“Hey man. Pick up and drop off. That’s all I do, OK?”
“Sure.” I close the door in his face.
Back in my kitchen, I toss the manilla envelope on the island’s marble top. It skids across it a little. I stare at it like it might try to harm me.
Thing is, even without knowing what’s in there, I know it can’t be good news. I’m not sure I want to deal with more bullshit tonight.
Yet there it sits. Fucking beckoning to me, like a cheap whore or something.
So I down my glass of wine and pluck the envelope up. I tear it open and yank out what’s inside.
Some sort of file. I glance in the envelope to see if there’s a goddamn note or something. Anything that might tell me who the fuck sent me this shit.
There’s nothing.
I look at the file again. Flip it over. And see that there’s something written on it, in big, black sharpy.
Just one word. Just a name.
“Becky.”
