The phone rang twice.
A man answered.
I gave him my name.
There was a pause.
Then his entire manner changed.
“”Mrs. Margaret?””
“”Yes.””
“”We’ve been expecting your call.””
My heart began pounding.
“”Expecting me? Why?””
“”Please come to Manhattan tomorrow morning. Bring the brass key your husband gave you.””
I sat perfectly still.
How did he know about the key?
Before I could ask, he added something that made my blood run cold.
“”Mrs. Margaret, there are certain things your husband wanted you to understand. But we must discuss them in person.””
The following morning, before sunrise, I boarded a bus to Manhattan.
My suitcase rested against my knees.
My purse was clutched tightly against my chest.
At exactly 9:07 a.m., I entered a quiet private bank on 47th Street.
A receptionist escorted me into an elegant office where a woman in a tailored gray suit was waiting.
She smiled politely.
“”Good morning, ma’am. How may I assist you?””
Without speaking, I opened my purse.
I placed the small brass key on her desk.
She picked it up and examined the number stamped into the metal.
Her smile disappeared.
She looked at the number again.
Then at me.
“”Where did you get this?””
“”My husband gave it to me before he died.””
