“Hi, I’m… I usually get deliveries from one of your drivers, Ryan. I just wanted to ask if he’s okay.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Ma’am, we can’t provide personal information about our employees,” she said firmly.
“I don’t need details,” I pleaded. “Just tell me he’s alright.”
“Yes, he’s fine,” she replied quickly, and before I could say another word, the line went dead.
I sat at the table, staring at the receiver, my mind buzzing with unease.
If Ryan was fine, why hadn’t he shown up?
I pressed my palms to my face, telling myself not to spiral. Maybe he’d gotten sick. Still, a knot twisted in my chest that wouldn’t loosen.
A week later, at exactly six, the doorbell finally rang. Relief washed over me as I hurried to open the door, but it vanished the moment I saw who was standing there.
A young woman in a red delivery jacket was holding the familiar white box.
“Pizza delivery for Evelyn?” she asked politely.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said, taking the box, but before she could turn away, I asked, “What happened to Ryan? He usually delivers here.”
“Ryan? Which one?”
“Tall, brown hair, always smiling,” I said quickly.
“Oh. Him. He doesn’t work here anymore. He quit,” she said, and then stepped back toward her car.
“Quit? When?” I called after her, but the wind snatched my words away.
She waved vaguely and disappeared into the rain.
Closing the door, I carried the box to the kitchen. I set it on the counter and opened the lid. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but then my breath caught.
Inside, scrawled in thick black marker across the cardboard, were the words:
I Know What You Did 50 Years Ago…
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