PROLOGUE
Of all the things I never thought I’d say about my life, there is this—I have a blackmailer.
The blackmail started for a simple reason—I was guilty.
And over the years the guilt has taken a strong hold of me. Like a giant iron fist.
I used to do things differently. Before the blackmailing started.
I used to hand over the money voluntarily. And on my own schedule. I would head to my bank branch and withdraw a couple hundred dollars from the savings account Amanda and I share. Once, after I received a one-thousand-dollar bonus at the PR firm where I worked, I handed the entire amount over. I always placed the crisp stack of cash in a manila envelope. I wrapped the envelope with tape, making sure it was secure and tight, and I drove thirty minutes away from my home and arrived in another town, where I traced the familiar path to a modest two-story house in an old subdivision.
Sometimes I arrived before daylight, telling Amanda I had an early meeting in my office. Other times I rolled up to the house late at night, headlights off, radio silent, claiming a social obligation from work or having made some other plausible excuse.
In those days, before everything else happened, Amanda never questioned me. She believed what I told her.
I always found the house dark, the porch light extinguished. I quickly pulled open the mailbox that sat at the end of the driveway, felt the coolness of the morning or night air against my face, slipped the envelope inside, closed the mailbox tight, and drove off. I’d mastered the smooth transaction, accomplishing my task in mere seconds.
I didn’t write on the envelope. Or leave a note.
But otherwise I did nothing to conceal my identity. It was there if someone wanted to find it.
My fingerprints were on the envelope, the tape, the money. My DNA was on the flap I licked.
I knew for a fact the family was getting the money.
I knew because just six weeks ago, the local paper ran a story. It detailed the anonymous gifts of cash that appeared randomly in the mailbox. The article’s author theorized that the person leaving the money was a Good Samaritan, someone moved by the plight of the family and the medical expenses related to the accident six years earlier that left their middle daughter with permanent disabilities and their youngest daughter dead. In the story, the family explained that the cash helped keep them afloat when times were tough by allowing them to purchase much-needed medical supplies or household items.
“We have insurance,” the father said in the article. “And the government helps some. But it’s never enough. These envelopes are a godsend.”
He went on to say they were initially reluctant to tell anyone about the money. More than anything else, they worried the publicity might scare off the anonymous donor. Clearly this person didn’t want attention or recognition of any kind.
But eventually the family couldn’t stand not saying anything.
They wanted the donor to know how much they appreciated what he or she was doing for them. They wanted the donor to know how much the money helped.
And they insisted they would never test the envelope for fingerprints or DNA. They would never set up a hidden camera to try to catch the person in the act.
And if the donor ever stopped leaving the money for any reason, they would understand. He or she had already been more generous than anyone could have imagined.
“I truly believe the person who gives us this money is an angel,” the mother said. “I know it sounds corny to say that in this day and age, but I really believe it’s an angel.”
* * *
—
Just under a month ago, I got caught.
Not by the police. Not by the media.
And not by Amanda.
No, I got caught by the family’s eldest daughter, the one who wasn’t quoted in the article about the anonymous angelic donations.
I’d been reluctant to go back and make another delivery. I feared that the article might have stirred up too much attention and might drive someone—another reporter, a neighbor, a random fame seeker who wanted something to brag about on social media—to stake the place out and catch me. Over time, my guilt grew greater than my fear. And I went back with another envelope.
After I dropped it off and was two miles from their house, a car pulled alongside me on the empty road. The sky was gray, just lightening toward sunrise. No one else was out.
At first I ignored the driver, but they paced me, and then made an aggressive move—increasing their speed, pulling ahead, and cutting over into my lane so I had no choice but to slow and then stop unless I wanted to go into the culvert that ran on my right.
The other driver stopped as well, blocking me in and allowing me no path forward.
I sat frozen in the car, my hands gripping the wheel. I was ready to slam the car into reverse and back up, turn around if I had to.
But then the driver stepped out. Instead of a cop or a menacing figure, I saw a woman about my age. She wore a long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans. Running shoes. Her dirty blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she walked briskly toward my car, her stride long and confident. She twirled her finger, telling me to roll down the window. Which I did.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “Are you hurt?”
“Just listen,” she said. She spoke in clipped sentences, her voice husky, with a trace of a Kentucky accent. “You know who I am, right?”
I hadn’t seen her photo in six years. But the face wasn’t that different. A few smile lines around the eyes. A few gray strands in the hair. But it was her.
Dawn Steiner. The elder sister of Maggie and Emily Steiner. Maggie was killed in the accident, and Emily was left with a permanent injury to her leg, one that hindered her ability to walk and work.
My heart thumped. Triple time. The morning was cool, but beads of sweat popped out on my forehead like I was a sick man.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Shhh. You know me, then. And I know you. So, like I said, just listen.”
Her tone was flat as the road. Calm. Clear. Precise.
“I need money. I need my cut of what you have. In fact, I need more than that. I lost a sister here. And what you give to my parents . . . Let’s just say it doesn’t trickle down to me. And I have things I need the money for. I have obligations to keep up with. And you seem to be doing just fine. Help me out, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“About the money?”
“About why you do this at all. My parents believe what they want to believe about their anonymous Good Samaritan. It helps them deal with the shit sandwich they’ve been given to eat. They can open up the envelope of money when it shows up, and they can turn to each other and say, ‘See, the world’s not such a bad place.’ But I’m not like that.”