I stomp my way into my room and get dressed, pulling out clothing at random and wrestling it over my sticky, shower-damp skin. Then I march back downstairs with my phone in hand and make a call.
“Matilda,” I say when she picks up. “How’s itgoing?”
“Oh, hi!” she says, her voice cheerful. “It’s going well. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I say. Like the contestants on every reality show ever, I’m not here to make friends, so I get right down to business. “I was actually calling to see if you’ve found anything about Thomas Freese.”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I was going to call you tonight,” she says, her voice suddenly lower. “Hang on.”
I listen to a series of shuffles and clatters and clanks until finally she returns.
“Okay. Juniper,” she says, a whispering, out-of-breath sound that makes me wonder if she’s lowering her voice on purpose. “Is this guy really your dad?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I say. “Why? What did you find?”
“Okay, so, first of all,” Matilda says, “I had to pull several strings to find this information, so I hope you’re grateful.”
“Very,” I say. “What did you find?”
There’s a pause, and then she says, “It’s just weird, Juniper.”
I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.
Good grief. I’m going to have to pry every detail from her at this rate. Matilda likes the drama of a good reveal, but I wish she’d save it for a less-important conversation.
I rub my temples, taking a deep breath.Patience, patience, patience.
“Weird how?” I say—patiently.
“Well, so, okay. Didn’t your mom die six years ago?”
“Six and a half, yeah.”
“In May, right?”
Rarely does Matilda surprise me, but every so often, it happens. “How did you remember that?” I say.
“Because you texted me to tell me when I was online bidding for that vintage Givenchy bag—the black one, remember?And I got the notification that I won, like, literally three seconds after your text. That was in May.”
Ah. That makes far more sense. “Yes, okay. What about it?”
“This guy died like aweeklater. Suicide.”
I shiver at her words, rubbing my arms for warmth. Did Aiden turn on the AC or something?
“I read a bit about that. Tell me more.”
“Well, he was fine, for one. His wife and his coworkers said he didn’t show any signs of depression or suicidal ideation. It sounds like he was pretty stressed at work, there were going to be layoffs and he was trying to be extra productive to make sure his position stayed safe, but other than that?—”
“Why did they call it a suicide, then?” I say, looking around the room and trying to decide where to sit. My eyes catch on Aiden’s reading chair in the corner, empty and inviting, and I hurry over. I want a turn sitting next to the bust of Shakespeare and feeling generally superior to everyone in the vicinity. That might help ease some of the turmoil I’m experiencing.
“Because he left a note.”
She drops this piece of information right as I’m trying to seat myself elegantly—a must when wearing a shorter skirt—but when her words register, I abandon that desire and let myself free-fall into the chair, squirming around to get comfortable. I end up with my legs crossed criss-cross-applesauce, and anyone standing in front of me would definitely see things they did not have permission to see.
But Aiden’s not here anyway. It’s fine. I need to settle in for this conversation.
“He left a note?” I say, just to make sure I heard her correctly. “The reports I saw never mentioned that.”
