“Be careful,” I said. “Message me when you get to the hotel.”
He agreed, grabbed his keys, and left. I watched him disappear through the carved oak door—and felt a faint, uneasy tug in my chest. A warning I brushed aside. Maybe it was just the guilty relief of having the house to myself for a few days.
Later that afternoon, after several meetings at the office, my thoughts drifted to Megan—my best friend since college. She’d texted me the day before, claiming she’d been admitted to a hospital in Segovia with acute typhoid fever. Megan lived alone in that unfamiliar city. I’d always tried to help her. The little house she stayed in was one of my properties, and I’d let her live there rent-free out of compassion.
“Poor Megan,” I murmured. “She must feel so lonely.”
I glanced at the time—two o’clock. My afternoon was suddenly wide open, and an idea hit me: why not visit her? Segovia was only a couple of hours away if traffic behaved. I could surprise her with her favorite cocido and a basket of fresh fruit.