My coffee goes cold the second I see it: a new email, addressed to “My Dearest Michael.” Except Michael died last spring. No one has touched this old laptop since the funeral, but somehow, the inbox keeps ticking along like he’s just out running errands.
The subject line? “Are we still on for Thursday?” I don’t recognize the sender—“Elizabeth R.” The message isn’t long, but my eyes snag on words like “hotel” and “our time.” My stomach drops, then knots. I want to close the laptop and pretend I never saw it, but curiosity’s a nasty itch. Was Michael planning to meet someone? Or is this all some spam gone cruelly wrong?
