She carefully placed the lunchbox inside a bag.
I turned around.
“Excuse me.”
She looked at me.
“Did you know that was going to happen?”
“No.”
She paused.
“I’ve been following him for months. I happened to see him enter this section.”
“And you carry those photographs around?”
“Copies.”
She touched the bag.
“The lunchbox belonged to my husband.”
“Your husband?”
“Harold.”
Her expression softened.
“He died in 2019.”
She looked down at the old metal box.
“For some reason, carrying his lunchbox makes me braver.”
I smiled slightly.
“What’s your name?”
“Dorothy Marsh.”
She explained that she had spent forty years working as an investigative journalist.
She had retired twice.
This investigation was supposed to be her final story.
The man who had stolen our seats was a property developer.
According to Dorothy, she had been documenting a pattern of questionable business behavior, fraud allegations, intimidation, and mistreatment of people with less power than him.
