“I wanted the chance to thank you,” he said. “To repay what you did for me. But I also wanted to make sure you were all right.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. He let go of my hand and reached into his briefcase again.
This time, he pulled out a thick manila folder. It had a rubber band around it.
My heart monitor started picking up speed. I could hear it. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Adrienne,” he said, “I need to tell you some things. And some of them are going to be hard to hear. I’m sorry I have to do it today, of all days. But I don’t think it can wait.”
I stared at the folder.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“It took a long time,” he said. “I didn’t know your last name. Just Miss Adrienne. I called Franklin Elementary every few years. Old records were gone. Then last spring I hired a researcher who went through the district’s archived payroll from 1978. Teacher’s aides. There was only one Adrienne.”
