When Arthur gave her the cardboard box, his three children were already outside his hospital room deciding what she deserved.
Arthur could hear them through the door. His eyes were closed, but his fingers tightened around Camille’s hand every time their voices rose above the hallway noise.
Then he opened his eyes.
“Camille,” he whispered.
She leaned forward. “I’m right here.”
He moved one hand slowly from beneath the blanket and set an old cardboard box between them. Her name was written across the top in black marker, the letters slightly uneven in the way of someone whose hands had recently started to fail him.
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“Arthur, what is this?”
He gave her a tired smile — the particular smile he had that was mostly in his eyes.
“You won’t get my money, darling,” he said.
Her throat closed.
She hated that her heart dropped. Not because she had married him for it — she hadn’t. But some scared, practical part of her had quietly been counting on the fact that his money might finally make her feel safe in a way she had never been able to afford on her own.
Arthur saw it on her face.
He had always seen too much.
