His answer never changed.
“The route’s my responsibility.”
To me, it was just a paper route. A small, stubborn routine that seemed to define the limits of his retirement.
Then, six months ago, the inevitable happened.
He was halfway through the Sunday delivery—the thickest edition—when he had a heart attack. Fast. Sudden. He collapsed at the curb on Maple Street, one hand resting on the bundled papers, the other pressed to his chest.
The funeral was small. Quiet. Just like Patrick.
Neighbors came. A few of my mother’s old friends. Me. We stood around, unsure what to do with our hands or our grief, when a man in a crisp suit—slightly too new—walked in. He didn’t quite fit. He wasn’t openly mourning. He seemed more… official.
After the service, he came straight to me.
“Mr. Hayes?” he asked, offering a manicured hand. “Martin O’Connell. I was Patrick’s manager at the Town Herald.”
I thanked him, surprised he’d come at all. “He was very dedicated.”
Martin hesitated, then leaned closer and lowered his voice.
“Alistair… Patrick never actually worked for the Town Herald.”
My stomach clenched. “What are you saying? I saw him leave every morning. He got a weekly check.”
“Yes. An expense allowance. I wrote it myself,” Martin said. “The paperboy routine—the bike, the early mornings—was a cover. For twenty years.”
He pressed a heavy business card into my palm. No company name. No logo. Just a phone number and two initials: C.B.
“He asked me to give you this after the funeral,” Martin continued. “In case you ever needed answers.”
“Answers to what?” I asked.
