Eight
IT ARRIVES IN TUESDAY’S mail.
Along with cards and letters from well-wishers, is a missive typed on computer and printed out on a laser printer.
I look at the words on the page, and they chill me to the bone.
Picking up my phone, I call Helen. She answers on the third ring.
“Darling,” she says in a hushed tone, “I can’t talk right now.”
“You need to come to the Rectory,” I say without preamble. “Something came in today’s mail that you need to see.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
***
