Stella’s letter sat on the coffee table, unfolded, staring up at me, the wordforgetsmudged but dry now.
Willy caught me looking at it. “That’s rough, bro.”
“Yeah.”
“The hidden message was clever. That girl loves to screw with you.”
I looked up at him. “What hidden message?”
“You didn’t see it?” he rolled his eyes. “You’re so damn lovesick. Of course you didn’t.” He ran his finger down the text. “Look at the last seven lines, the first letter of each line. It jumped right out at me, but I do a lot of word puzzles. Maybe that’s…”
He droned on, but I wasn’t listening. My eyes locked on those last seven lines in Stella’s careful script—
How are you to fill your days without thinking about me?
Even I don’t know. Perhaps you will always think about me.
Live all your days with me on your mind, then.
Perhaps you won’t, but I think you will.
My Pip.
Every day, always. My Pip.
Stella
HELP ME
On the television, the reporter returned, repeating the same information. “I need to get over there.”
“That sounds like a really bad idea.”
“Don’t care.”
Before he could reply, I was back in my room, changing out of my damp clothes.
Neither of us owned a car. Everything we needed was within walking distance, and parking was scarce. Matteo had offered to buy me one with funds from the trust, but I turned him down. It would just sit and rot, I told him. Vandals in the neighborhood didn’t need another target, particularly a shiny new one.
I caught a cab on Brownsville.
Willy wanted to go, but I told him no. I told him I needed to do this alone.
Each turn, every bump of the road, seemed familiar. When I closed my eyes, I was back in that white SUV, following the same route.
The driver had to drop me at the mouth of Milburn Court. There were too many people and emergency vehicles blocking the small cul-de-sac to get any closer.
I gave him cash and stepped out into the crowd.
The acrid scent of fire was heavy on the early morning air, the sky at the edge of the cul-de-sac was thick with it, all eyes of the crowd faced in that singular direction. Some people had brought chairs, one man even had a cooler. Some were silent, others joked and laughed. Two boys circled the large group on skateboards, sticking to the outer edge of the pavement.
I pushed past them all.
I forced my way through, the numbers growing as I neared the front, until I was at the yellow police tape, now reinforced with wooden barricades and about a dozen uniformed officers behind those, eyeing the crowd with solemn faces.
About thirty feet behind them, I spotted the tall wall of stone topped with black metal spikes, familiar from my visit to this place. A gate of matching metal stood open at the foot of the driveway. To the left was the guardhouse Pete Lemire of KRWT had used as a backdrop in his earlier broadcast. There was no sign of him or the news van now.
The driveway twisted and disappeared among the old oaks and elms, the house lost somewhere behind the trees, not visible from here.
