He told himself it was over.
For four days, he believed that.
On the fifth day, he came home to find a single quiet car parked outside his building.
Florence Kingsley was leaning against it in plain clothes, holding an envelope.
She offered it to him.
“Thank you for what you did,” she said.
Richard looked at the envelope and did not take it.
“I didn’t help you for money.”
Something shifted in her face. Not offense—shock. In her world, people reached quickly for anything she offered. Money opened every locked thing. But here it hung useless between them.
“I want to thank you,” she said.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Richard replied. “You were stranded. I had a room.”
“That is not all it was.”
There was something in her tone that stopped him. Not power. Truth.
He looked at her. “How did you find my address?”
“I have people who find things.”
He nodded.
An awkward silence opened. Then, because he was who he was, he asked, “Would you like some water?”
She blinked, as if the simplicity of the offer surprised her.
They sat outside his room on two plastic chairs. He gave her water in a chipped cup. She held it with both hands like she had held his tea that first night.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
For weeks, everyone had asked her that question without wanting the real answer. She had answered with polished phrases: I’m fine. I’m managing. One day at a time.
But Richard was looking at her plainly, expecting honesty.
“I went back to the house,” she said. “I sat in the kitchen for forty minutes. Then I got in my car and drove here.”
“So,” Richard said softly, “not well.”
“No,” she answered. “Not well.”
