The Misdelivered Secret Between Arthur and the Girl Next Door

muffin.

I glanced at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said.

The photograph did not answer.

I got the scissors from the junk drawer.

My hand hovered over the tape.

A decent man would have walked the box over.

A decent man would have knocked.

A decent man would not open another person’s delivery.

But I had been decent.

I had been decent for six weeks.

And I continue reading …