Jessica’s apartment is on a dead-end street, bookended by a sub shop on one corner and a package store on the other. Triple-decker houses make up the rest of the blighted neighborhood. Each building is in a different stage of neglect, from plywood-covered windows and graffiti-tagged siding to broken fencing and sagging front porches.
Diana spent the drive here trying to figure out what to say to Jessica. “Hi, I’m the widow of the guy you slept with in 1982, and you may have information about a crime he committed” doesn’t sound appealing. She makes a list to manage her unsettled mind, setting her expectations low:What Are All the Ways This Could Go Wrong?
Jessica could slam the door in my face and refuse to talk to me.
Jessica could tell me she doesn’t remember Tom.
She could tell me Carson was solely responsible for the fire and for William’s death, which means Tom wasn’t involved in the fire and I have no idea what his letter is about.
Lakshmi parks across from number twenty-five, in front of a fire hydrant, the only free spot. Grace said Jessica lives in apartment two, which Diana assumes is on the second floor. The windows are dark, curtains pulled tight. Diana was too nervous to eat before they left home, and hunger makes her stomach ache, spasms shooting through her midsection.
“What do you want to do?” Lakshmi asks, looking at her watch. “It’s 10:53 a.m.”
“Wait thirty minutes or so, until she’s had time to call her daughter.”
Lakshmi taps her paint-stained fingers on the steering wheel. “How about we check to make sure this is her place? If we have to wait, we should be sure this is where she lives.”
“How would we do that?”
“I go up to the house to look at the mailbox.”
This suggestion makes Diana’s heartbeat speed up. “Maybe we should stay here.”
“If that’s what you want.” Lakshmi’s tapping slowly progresses to full-on drumming, the rhythmic beat pulsing out a message.Go, go, go.
“Okay, fine,” Diana says, unable to stand the tension anymore.
Lakshmi leaps out of the car and steals across the street, weaving between the other parked cars, several of which look as if they’ve been in their spots for years, their windows crusted with dirt. She steps gingerly up the front stairs and stands in front of the door. A moment later the car door opens, and Lakshmi hands Diana her phone. On the screen is a photo of the mailbox.
Apartment 1: Kuras
Apartment 2: O’Connor/Desjardins
Apartment 3: Sampaio
“Who’s Desjardins?” Lakshmi asks.
“A roommate? A boyfriend? I have no idea.”
“Now we wait.”
“Yes, we wait.” Diana rolls down her window. The sky is clear, but the air feels heavy, the barometric pressure dropping at an uncomfortable rate. She estimates she can sit here for one hour before she begs Lakshmi to put the car in Drive and flee. She mulls over the prospect of leaving without talking to Jessica but remembers Duncan’s words:You tell me the hard stuff is worth it. Don’t give up and all that. Well, you can’t either.She has to stay, for her children’s sake and for Grace’s. And for herself.
“One thing’s been bothering me,” Lakshmi says.
“Only one?”
“Yes, well, this is the biggest one. Why did Tom leave you the letter? In the time capsule, of all places? I can’t sort that one out.”
“I can’t either.” Diana has wrestled with this one and been unable to come up with a satisfactory explanation. “I wish—”
She is interrupted by a thud as the door to number twenty-five opens and crashes against the house. Diana crouches in her seat, watching from the corner of her eye. Lakshmi shifts closer. A man stomps down the front steps. His hair is stuffed into an unkempt ponytail, and he wears a sleeveless shirt and jeans. His arms are covered in tattoos. He lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, slowly blowing out the smoke. He spits onto the sidewalk and staggers away from the house, moving as if being vertical is a new concept.
“Is he Sampaio or Kuras?” Lakshmi whispers.
“Or Desjardins? The possible roommate/boyfriend? I hadn’t thought about there being someone else.”
“I did.”
