I listened.
“He asked about him. Not in that hurried way people do when they're trying to be polite. He actually sat down and listened.”
Her eyes filled again.
“He remembered details. George's favorite music. Our anniversary. The little bench we had in the garden.”
I frowned.
“How could he know all that?”
Mrs. Wilson looked away.
“At first, I thought he was simply thoughtful.”
She swallowed.
“Now I think somebody told him.”
I remembered the photographs in Alex's backpack.
The carefully labeled addresses.
The copied keys.
The identification cards.
“He made you feel special,” I said.
She nodded.
“More than that. He made me feel visible.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
“After a while, I wasn't frightened of dying alone anymore. I was frightened that he'd stop coming.”
My throat tightened.
I took her hand.
“Margaret, what happened to you wasn't because you wanted companionship.”
