So she returned the bag to the floor, and thought. Retraced the morning drive in (alone in the car) and the morning at work (unmolested in her office) and the lunchtime meeting across town; and of course if someone wanted to slip something into her bag, it would have been perfectly easy, but why leave a phone number, and not lift a thing?
Had someone next to her in line inadvertently stuffed it into the wrong satchel, in a moment of distractedness, caused perhaps by the teasing of the unknown Jessica? Was it a subtle way of forcing her hand, making her call what would be a private detective, who would reveal that she was actually adopted, or that her late husband had kept a secret second family in a crowded apartment in Queens, or that someone had found her microchipped dog down by the wharves? None of these stories was probable, although each might technically have been possible.
endless autumn mornings punctuated by the fog of things to come