He produces a photograph and a folder. A man stares out, hair slicked, smile practiced but brittle at the edges. His eyes are shifty, his mouth smug. He’s a man who never gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar but always seems to have crumbs on his lips. I’ve known men like him before. Never good.
I glance again at the envelope. Harold Thomas inheriting Penny’s land doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t balance.
Finally, I nod. “I’ll go. But I’m conducting a full risk analysis first.”
Browne chuckles, slipping the letter and photo back into his satchel. “Of course you will.”
When he leaves, the office feels off balance. I look at the succulent, still living in its perfect pot, and realize there’s a good chance it’ll probably outlive me.
My apartment looks like my office—everything squared, everything in its place. The black sofa lined up with the television, shelves ordered by height and color, a kitchen counter without a single crumb. Not sterile, exactly; it was minimal.
Until tonight.
I’ve spread my packing checklist across the dining table: color-coded, alphabetized, laminated. Each item gets a precise checkmark as it slides into the duffel on the chair beside me.
Five button-downs, two pairs of jeans, boots polished. Emergency first aid kit. Flashlight. Compass. Topographical maps of western Montana, folded with military precision.
I pause over the column labeledcontingencies: survival rations, water purifier, spare batteries. A voice in my head mutters it’s overkill for a year in rural Montana. Another voice, older and sharper, snaps back:There’s no such thing as over-prepared.
That one wins every time.
I slip a battered paperback between the neatly folded clothes. Mystery novel. Cover frayed, spine softened from too many rereads. No one knows I keep it. It doesn’t belong to the orderly accountant persona. But late at night, when sleep won’t come and memories won’t leave, it helps.
The succulent I brought home from the office sits on the counter, still angled toward the window, leaves glossy under the lamplight. I debate bringing it, then shake my head. I water it once more anyway, then carry it down the hall.
Mrs. Worthington, my neighbor, answers her door in curlers and a robe patterned with dancing lobsters. She peers over her glasses at me. “You look like you’re heading to war.”
“Nope, just Montana,” I correct. “Might be worse.”
She cackles, pats my cheek, and takes the plant from me like it’s a newborn. “I’ll take care of him. Don’t you worry.”
“Thanks again.”
When I get back to my apartment, I leave her a note anyway, taped to my door:No parties. And a smiley face.I know it would never cross her mind, but I’ve known her long enough to know she’ll find it funny and text me with a party meme.
By the time I double-check every lock, the duffel strap digs comfortably into my shoulder. Everything in its place. Except me.
I glance once more at the neat apartment, each line sharp under the overhead light. It’s orderly and predictable, and I have a feeling I’m about to walk into anything but organized.
On the curb outside, the city hums—tires hissing over wet pavement against the early morning dark. Tomorrow, it’ll be mountains instead of skyscrapers. Dust instead of sidewalks.
And her. Milly Thomas.
The name in Penny’s letter holds a responsibility that the maps in my bag won’t fix. I don’t know her. I don’t want to. But Penny trusted me, and I don’t ignore last wishes. Not when they come written in purple ink and sealed with guilt I can’t shake.
I square my shoulders, check the strap of the duffel again, and step into the Denver morning.
The rental car waits for me at the curb of my apartment. I load my duffel into the trunk and start off on my mission. I come to Milly’s apartment complex just as dawn breaks over Denver. My duffel sits squarely in the trunk, straps tucked flat. Mission-ready.
And then Milly Thomas barrels into view, and the mission shifts before it even begins.
She’s wrangling luggage that looks determined to escape her grasp—suitcases stacked precariously, a garment bag sliding sideways, a tote sprouting sticky notes like it’s molting. A battered crate labeledPumpernickelrests at her feet.
She looks up, auburn hair tumbling into her face. She tucks it behind her ear with a quick, unthinking gesture—and I freeze for half a beat. Not regulation. Definitely not on the checklist. But there it is: a spark I didn’t plan for.
“Morning,” I manage.
Her eyes are green and bright. “You must be Austin. Penny’s Numbers Man.”
