“Well, well, well,” Linda said, eyeing it. “Who gets the honors?”
“Why don’t you, Ms. Royale?” he suggested, passing her the envelope.
She looked at Rey, who nodded and opened her Perrier to take a long sip. “Go for it, Lindy-Loo.”
Carefully, she undid the flap. Out came another envelope and a handwritten letter, more of a note really. The date at the top: December 1985.
“‘I’m penning this not long after Johnny Vespuzzi’s unfortunate passing. If you’ve found this, then I’ve not passed on the photos in this envelope—either through lack of memory or indecision—that he had asked me to keep for him. They’re of sentimental value, he told me, and didn’t want them to be lost or borrowed by someone who might forget to return them. He trusted me, as I did him. Johnny was an honorable man, and a
