Chapter 2: The Promise Margaret Made
I didn't sleep that night.
Arthur's words kept circling through my mind.
She'll come back hungry.
I had known Margaret Whitmore almost as long as I'd known Arthur.
She was the sort of woman who remembered everybody's birthday, kept spare biscuits for visiting children, and could turn a nearly empty refrigerator into a proper Sunday dinner.
She had also loved cats.
Not just liked them.
Loved them.
Over the years, she'd taken in strays, abandoned kittens, and one particularly unpleasant tomcat that had bitten three neighbours and stolen an entire chicken from my kitchen.
Arthur used to complain about the animals.
"Margaret," he'd say, "we're running a hotel for creatures that don't pay rent.""
And she'd laugh.
"At least they appreciate the food, Arthur.""
Their last cat had been a small ginger creature called Poppy.
Poppy disappeared in the spring of 2019.
Margaret died several months later.
Arthur never got another cat.
I remembered all of that.
What I didn't understand was why a hundred-and-one-year-old man was filling his kitchen cupboards with food for an animal that had been missing for years.
The following morning, I went next door.
Arthur was in the hallway, struggling to put on his coat.
"Going out?""
"Just to the shops.""
"Again?""
He smiled faintly.
"Need a few things.""
I glanced at the shopping bag beside his feet.
It already contained two tins of soup and a packet of batteries.
"Arthur, let me take you.""
"Oh, no, love. I can manage.""
He reached for his cane.
His fingers trembled so badly that he missed the handle twice.
I took the bag.
"You're not walking there alone.""
He didn't argue.
At the supermarket, Sophie spotted us immediately.
Her expression changed when she saw Arthur.
"Good morning, Mr Whitmore.""
"Morning, dear.""
Graham, the manager, appeared from behind the customer-service desk.
He was a broad man in his fifties with a habit of folding his arms whenever he spoke to customers.
"Mr Whitmore. Could I have a word?""
Arthur stopped.
"Certainly.""
Graham glanced at me.
"It's about the recent incidents.""
Arthur's face went pale.
"I understand.""
"Your behaviour has become a serious problem.""
"I'm sorry.""
"You've been warned repeatedly.""
"I know.""
"And yet you keep doing it.""
Arthur lowered his head.
Graham opened a folder.
"We have footage of you concealing products in your clothing on multiple occasions. The total value is now approaching two thousand dollars.""
I blinked.
Two thousand?
For soup, batteries, and cat food?
"Surely there's been some mistake," I said.
Graham shook his head.
"Madam, we've reviewed everything.""
Arthur reached into his coat.
His fingers struggled with the buttons.
"I can pay," he whispered.
Graham gave a humourless laugh.
"That's not the point anymore.""
Sophie stepped forward.
"Mr Graham, perhaps we could—"
"No, Sophie.""
Arthur looked at her.
"I'm sorry, dear.""
Sophie looked close to tears.
He turned toward the shelves.
Then, without anyone asking him to, he removed a packet of teabags from his cardigan pocket and placed it on the counter.
"I haven't paid for these.""
Graham stared at him.
"See? This is exactly what I'm talking about.""
Arthur nodded.
"I know.""
He reached into another pocket and took out a birthday card.
It was white, with a little blue flower printed on the front.
He placed that beside the teabags.
Then he stood there, shaking.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I put my hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, Arthur. Let's go home.""
He nodded.
But before we reached the exit, he stopped beside the charity collection box.
There was a picture of a little girl on it.
He studied the picture for several seconds.
Then he whispered something I barely heard.
"Not yet, sweetheart.""
I turned.
"What did you say?""
"Nothing, love.""
On the way home, he didn't speak.
At his front door, I finally stopped him.
"Arthur, I need you to tell me what's happening.""
He stared at the green paint on his door.
"I can't.""
"Why?""
"Because I promised Margaret.""
My throat tightened.
"Margaret is gone, Arthur.""
He flinched.
I regretted the words immediately.
He took a long breath.
"She made me promise on her last afternoon.""
"What did she ask you to promise?""
He looked at me.
For the first time in months, I saw something other than confusion in his eyes.
Fear.
"That I wouldn't tell anybody what happened to our little girl.""
I felt the ground shift beneath me.
"Arthur...""
He gripped his cane.
"She said people would misunderstand.""
I stepped closer.
"What little girl?""
He looked away.
Then he opened the door and disappeared inside.
I stood on his doorstep for several minutes.
Arthur had never had children.
At least, that was what everybody in our street believed.
That afternoon, I went home and searched through my old photographs.
I found one from 1998.
Margaret was standing beside Arthur in their garden.
Between them was a little girl with dark curls and a missing front tooth.
On the back, in Margaret's handwriting, were five words:
Our Emily. Summer will bring her home.
I stared at the photograph.
Because I remembered Emily.
I remembered the ambulance.
I remembered Margaret screaming in the garden.
And I remembered the little white coffin.
But there was something else.
Something I hadn't thought about in twenty-eight years.
Emily had loved cats.
And she'd had a birthday coming up.
I looked at the date on the photograph.
Then I looked at the calendar.
Tomorrow was October 31.
The day Emily had been born.
And suddenly I understood why Arthur had been buying birthday cards.
But I still didn't understand why he was stealing them.
That evening, a police car pulled up outside his house.
Two officers got out.
One carried a folder.
The other walked straight to Arthur's front door.
I rushed outside.
"What's happening?""
The older officer turned toward me.
"Are you a relative?""
"No. I'm his neighbour.""
He looked at the folder.
"Then perhaps you can tell us why a hundred-and-one-year-old man has repeatedly been removing goods from a local supermarket without paying.""
Before I could answer, the front door opened.
Arthur stood there.
His walking stick was shaking against the wooden floor.
"That's alright, Eunice," he said softly.
May you like
Then he looked at the officers.
"I'll come quietly.""
