Retirement home

The car pulled into the quiet drive of St. Augustine’s Retirement Home. The low brick buildings sat in a horseshoe around a manicured lawn, dotted with benches and flowerbeds. It was early evening; the air was cool, the sky faintly pink.

Emma gripped her coat closed as she got out. The place was peaceful, almost too peaceful, but she could already see them, clusters of older men in cardigans and loose trousers, some with walking sticks, others in wheelchairs. They were chatting, smoking, watching the dusk fall.

Her stomach flipped.

Mark carried the envelope casually under his arm. He glanced at Emma, who kept her eyes down. Together they strolled along the path until they came to a weathered wooden bench near the main entrance. Mark set the envelope down, not tucked under anything, just lying there, white and obvious.

They walked on, rounding a hedge where they could linger without being too obvious. Emma tugged at her coat, fingers trembling.

“Someone will find it,” Mark murmured, eyes fixed on the bench.

Emma licked her lips. “I want to see who.”