Our office was on the second floor. There was a sign outside with my foundation’s name.
Around 11:45 a.m., my assistant, Megan, knocked on my office door.
“There’s a woman named Lydia asking for you,” she said.
I looked up from my paperwork.
“Send her in.”
Megan went out, and when the door opened slowly, Lydia stepped inside.
Megan, knocked on my office door.
My former classmate wore the same worn sneakers from the garage sale. She held the business card tightly between her fingers as if she still couldn’t believe it had led her there.
Her eyes scanned the office. They stopped when they reached the nameplate on my desk.
