“I put them on every morning.”
“You actually dress like a construction worker just to leave the house?”
“Yes.”
“And then you change here?”
“At the corner.”
“And you change back before coming home?”
“Yes.”
“For nine years?”
“Yes.”
I covered my face.
Then another question hit me.
“The lunches.”
Edward was quiet.
“What happened to the food?”
“There’s a man named Robert.”
I lowered my hands.
“What?”
“He works the early shift at a diner on Farber Street. He’s sixty-two. Money has been difficult for him for years.”
Edward gave me a cautious look.
“He eats the lunches.”
I stared.
“For nine years?”
“Yes.”
“He eats my sandwiches?”
“He calls them Rachel sandwiches.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
“He knows my name?”
“He asks about you sometimes.”
“So my husband has been secretly feeding a stranger my lunches for nine years?”
“Yes.”
“And keeping the notes?”
Edward reached into his jacket.
