Margaret Ellis.
Not Margaret Mercer.
Not Mrs. Daniel Mercer.
Just me.
The road rose slightly ahead, and each step pulled at my calves. Funeral shoes are made for standing on carpet beside caskets, not for walking county roads. After ten minutes, the backs of my
heels were burning.
After fifteen, I heard an engine.
I kept walking.
A faded blue pickup slowed beside me.
The window rolled down.
“Margaret?”
I stopped.
Sam Ortega leaned across the passenger seat.
Sam had run our machine shop floor for twenty-two years. He was seventy now, officially retired, though Daniel used to joke that Sam would haunt the loading dock after death just to make sure nobody stacked steel wrong.
His weathered face tightened when he saw me.
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
I looked back at the empty road.Compare Couriers
“My son dropped me off.”
Sam’s expression didn’t change at first.
Then it did.
Slowly.
The muscles around his mouth hardened.
“Get in.”
I opened the door.
The truck smelled like coffee, old leather, and sawdust.
The instant I sat down, my body began shaking.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that my teeth clicked once.
Sam noticed.
He didn’t ask me if I was all right.
He reached behind the seat, pulled out a red thermos, and poured coffee into the plastic cap.
“Drink.”
I took it with both hands.
The coffee was too hot and too strong.
It was perfect.
Sam put the truck in gear.
“Where to?”
I looked at the envelope in my lap.
“Dawson & Pierce.”
His eyes flicked toward me.
“Law office?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Right now.”
He nodded once.
We drove.
The courthouse clock said 11:42 when we pulled into town.
