My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
It was Mr. Bennett, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the harsh fluorescent light of the pharmacy.
He adjusted his glasses, his fingers neat and precise, before he looked down at me.
“Emily,” he said, his voice carrying the formal weight of a courtroom.
“Mr. Bennett,” I said, holding the prescription slip in my hand.
“I did not expect to see you in town.”
“I had some business at the bank,” he said, his eyes scanning my face.
“How is your grandmother faring with the damp weather?”
“She is as stubborn as ever,” I said, trying to sound light.
“She spends most of her afternoon locked in her study with her papers.”
Mr. Bennett went still, his hand hovering over his coat pocket where a leather briefcase was tucked under his arm.
“Is she keeping you comfortable, Emily?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more guarded.
“I am doing my duty,” I said.
“She demands a great deal of attention lately.”
“The work is temporary,” Mr. Bennett said, his voice dropping as another customer walked past our aisle.
