I knew it. Max knew it.
My skin, still a light, sickly greenish-gray underneath my long-sleeved T-shirt, knew it as well.
But therewassomething else I could do…it would suck, yes. But if anyone could take care of Max Graham, it was Mordechai.
Or, rather, whoever was going to replace him.
There was only one place I could go to find that person.
Chapter
Seventeen
Mourners still hovered around Mordechai’s house, so I didn’t feel too conspicuous walking up the long drive. Just sad. They’d sell this house eventually, I thought. And then there’d be no more reason for me to come back here. There wouldn’t be a reason anyway, after I delivered this letter.
I circled the house, but any hope of getting into Mordechai’s office unnoticed faded as I saw a woman sitting on a chair in front of it, with the door propped open behind her. The air smelled faintly of tomato soup. The woman looked up and smiled at me as I approached, and I knew her, I thought. I’d seen her on the refrigerator. “I’m sorry, dear, but the shiva is only up at the main house. No one’s allowed back here.”
“I—I’m Delia Thompson.”
If I’d expected this announcement to be met with something other than a quizzical smile, I was doomed to be disappointed. But I didn’t have to go inside, after all. I just needed to hand the letters over.
I pulled the shiny new UPS large brown envelope filled with documents out of my messenger bag and held it out to her. “I knew Rabbi Mordechai. I was his assistant on some of his work, and um, I still had these letters in my things. He’d wanted me toprepare them for mailing, but I don’t know to whom. He didn’t tell me before he—before he?—”
“Oh, my, I’m so sorry.” The woman came toward me, and it clicked: she was the wife of the rabbi’s nephew. Dark-haired and clear-eyed, she tasted of compassion and acceptance. She also had the decency not to look too hard at my face as she took the envelope from me.
“Thank you,” I said, stepping back and gripping the shoulder strap of the bag with both hands. “It’s important that it goes to, um, whoever should get it. It’s a family in trouble, and the rabbi had visited them to help, but he didn’t finish the work with them. I don’t…” I gave her my best, most hopeful smile. “Do you know if they’ve assigned a replacement for him yet? Or whatever they do?”
“I don’t.” Her manner was still gentle and caring, her hold on the envelope firm. The rabbi’s nephew had chosen well. “You know he wasn’t officially part of the—never mind. I’ll give this to Rabbi Ethan. I’m sure they’ll forward it to the right person as soon as possible.”
“Okay, thanks.” I nodded quickly. “But it’s urgent.”
I turned to leave, but it was already too late.
“Mary? Who are you talking to?” A taller, younger version of Rabbi Mordechai stepped out of the office, and I stiffened reflexively, confused. For the briefest moment, I thought it was Mordechai standing there, Mordechai back from the grave, but this man was sharper, harder. Stronger. Possibly even smarter than Mordechai was, a caul of hard-won cynicism settling over him like one of Mordechai’s shawls.
I had to get out of here. He might know who I was?—
He knows.
Shut up,I thought desperately. I took an involuntary step back, but Ethan’s gaze traveled from the envelope in Mary’s hands to me.
His face went hard. “What are you doing here?” he asked harshly.
“Ethan.” Mary was clearly surprised to hear him take such a tone, and my heart shriveled a little. In another lifetime, on another planet, I would mourn with these people, tell them stories about their uncle and all the people he had helped. As it was, I just wanted to run.
“You are not welcome here,” he said curtly, his eyes flat and cold beneath his bushy brows. “Why do you trouble the?—”
“I’m leaving. I’m leaving!” I blurted, then I was scrambling back, turning away as something desperate quaked inside me. “Please—read the report,” I managed, over my shoulder. “Those people need your help.”
“Getout.” The force of Rabbi Ethan’s anger seemed to hit me square in the back, and I sprawled forward, half falling as I sped around the side of the house.
As I stumbled away, I heard Mary’s voice, soft but firm: “Ethan, that’s enough.”
But he didn’t call me back, and I didn’t stop moving. There were mourners still showing up, but I didn’t slow down for them, didn’t slow down for anyone. Even as I ran, I kept flashing back to that bright, new, empty folder. My name, in Mordechai’s hand. Cold as the grave he now rested in, under all that dirt.
Why had he created a file on me?
And had anything ever been in it?
