Chapter 7: Cash Envelope

On Monday morning, Norma Reeve walked into Hensley Animal Clinic carrying an empty cat carrier.

I was behind the front desk, labeling blood tubes, and I felt her before I saw her.

Every hair on my arms stood up.

"Good morning, dear," she said brightly. "I told Calvin we'd find you."

The waiting room was full.

A farmer sat with a sleepy goat on a leash, and a teenage girl held a hamster box on her knees.

Two older women shared a bench and a thermos.

Calvin came in behind his mother, hands in his pockets, looking miserable.

His collar was crooked, and his eyes had shadows under them.

He didn't meet mine.

"How did you get my address?" I asked.

"The owner of your diner was so helpful," Norma said. "Such a nice man. He worries about you."

The carrier clunked onto the counter.

"I don't have a cat," Norma added. "But I thought we could talk. Is there somewhere private?"

"No."

She smiled.

"Calvin has been unwell since you left. He doesn't eat. He sits in his car outside your old diner."

"He's an adult."

"He's a man with a delicate condition, Leah."

I felt the room hold its breath.

She set a white envelope on the counter between us.

It was thick, and the flap was tucked in.

"Take it," she said softly. "There's three thousand in there, and there'll be three thousand every month."

"For what?"

"For coming home." She laid one hand over mine.

"You're a sweet girl who needs a steady situation. Calvin needs a steady girl."

"We'd make you part of the family."

Calvin made a small noise.

"Mom," he said. "I told you not to do this."

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