“You’re mad about it.” She sees Jonathan’s anger in the set of his jaw and the blunt rhythm of his words.
“I’m confused, and I don’t like to be confused about my business.” Jonathan pauses. “I’ve decided if the money wasn’t for the firm, it was for something else, something important to Tom.”
As they talk, sunshine streams in through the window behind Jonathan’s desk, temporarily blinding Diana. She’s enveloped in the light, as if it is a living being she can touch. For a moment, Diana believes Tom is there with them, reaching out to her. What is he trying to say?
Jonathan clears his throat, and Diana remembers again that Tom is gone.
“Let me make a copy of this letter,” Jonathan says. “I’ll do a little research, though I advise you not to worry about this. Let sleeping dogs lie, as they say.”
Diana smooths the letter across her lap. As she traces Tom’s signature with the pointer finger on her right hand, she runs her left thumb over her engagement ring and the wedding band with their initials engraved inside. Telling Jonathan about the letter is one thing, but giving him a copy? She loses control of this if she does that.
“Diana.” Jonathan’s voice is silken and cajoling. “This letter doesn’t match up with the man who was my best friend. I know—I knew—that Tom. He was a good man. Calm, steady. I never once saw him lose his temper. This letter doesn’t change who he was to me. Nor should it change who he was to you.”
Diana thought she’d accept whatever Jonathan recommended she do, like she had every time Tom offered advice. Something—her own instincts?—holds her back.
Jonathan rests his elbows on the glossy walnut top of his desk, his fingers reaching out toward Diana. “You came here for help. Let me help you.”
“Okay,” she says, and passes him the letter. She is unsure whether this is the right decision. Then again, what is the correct response to any of this?
“I’ll keep this confidential, of course.” Jonathan places the letter in the feeder of the printer next to his desk, and the machine slowly chirps and sputters as a copy appears in the output tray. Jonathan hands Diana the original and slides the copy into a folder on his desk. “This was years ago,” he says. “Try to put it out of your mind.”
Diana stands up. “Thanks for your time. Can you tell the rest of the staff I said hello? I have a meeting back at the office and have to get going.”
Jonathan smiles, as if he senses her lie.
“How much do I owe you for the consult?” Diana says, pulling on her coat.
“Come on, you’re family. The family price tag is a hug. How about that?” Jonathan steps around the desk and puts his arms around her.
She stands in his embrace, inhaling Jonathan’s wool and coffee scent, her eyes closed tight. How she wishes he were Tom.
Chapter Eleven
Two days later, Lakshmi calls while Diana microwaves leftovers in the library’s break room.
“Diana, did you hire a house cleaner?” Lakshmi’s voice, typically calm and soothing, is frantic.
“Is this about my house’s messiness? Lax, I get that enough from my mom; I can’t believe you’re starting in on me.” Diana laughs as she removes her turkey meatloaf from the microwave and douses it with sriracha.
“Did you hire a house cleaner?” Lakshmi repeats.
Diana stills. “Why are you asking me this?”
“There’s someone in your house. I was at my easel and saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was a person walking into your backyard. They were there for less than a minute before they went around to the front and unlocked the door.”
Diana stills. Someone is in herhouse? Her breathing starts to hitch, and a lightheadedness fills her body. There’s a pounding in her ears, and she wonders if this is the start of a panic attack.
“Should I call the police?” Lakshmi gasps. “Wait—the person’s in the kitchen. I’m calling the police.”
“No,” Diana says. That one word comes out twisted, as if her body has figured out what she’s about to say next and protests her decision. “Don’t call the police. I’m coming home.” She runs from the room.
“You’re coming home? Why? To confront this person? That’s not safe.”
Diana grabs her keys and bag from her office. “Lax, listen to me, we’re going to hang up, and you’re going to record everything you see. Can you do that?”
“You think this is the person from Tom’s letter?” Lakshmi says, fear shading her words.
“No matter who it is, video will be helpful. Can you do that? Record what you see?” Diana forgoes the elevator for the stairs, nearly leaping between the landings. “Or take photos, whatever is easier. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
