Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
She pulled the handle down with a sharp, sudden jerk.
The rattling sound of the garage door rolling shut filled the small concrete room, cutting off the light from the house.
The side door of the garage clicked open at seven the next morning, letting in a thin wedge of gray daylight.
Martha Vance, my next-door neighbor, squeezed through the narrow opening, carrying a green steel thermos under her arm. She adjusted her blue wool shawl over her shoulders and pulled the door shut behind her with a soft click.
“I saw the kitchen lights go out last night,” Martha said, her voice a rapid whisper as she handed me a blue ceramic mug. “They locked you out of the main house, didn’t they?”
“The locks were changed yesterday afternoon,” I said, unscrewing the lid of the thermos.
“It is monstrous, Cassandra, absolutely monstrous,” Martha said, her fingers tightening on the edge of her shawl. “You cannot stay out here in the damp. I have the guest room made up right now, and you are welcome for as long as you need.”
