Page 19

Gently. With a please. As if that mattered now.

I read the letter a few times, and each time it sunk in a little more.

And now… known biological children.

I put everything back in the shoebox in the exact order I found it, as if neatness could make the contents less true.

Then I did the thing I still don’t understand. I went to my side of the closet.

Renny had given me a shoebox too, years ago.

“You need one,” he’d said, tossing me the empty box. “For your little treasures.”

“I’m not a raccoon.”

“Everyone’s a raccoon eventually.”

I had used it for a while. A birthday card from Jessica. A ticket from the first show Renny took me to at the New Vogue.

Small things. Mine.

I took the box down from the shelf and opened it.

Empty.

There was a pale rectangle on the bottom where something had sat long enough to keep the cardboard from fading and a small tear in one corner.

When had I emptied it? Why?

By the time we leave Reggie’s office, Jessica has three pages of notes, and I have a headache behind my left eye.

She walks beside me toward the parking lot, still in execution mode.

“I’ll make the calls,” she says. “Not today, unless you want, but soon.” She slaps my arm like she does when I need to actually listen. “You’ll need to get to the office, Paul. We should know what we’re dealing with before anything catches us off guard.”

Too late.

Out loud, I say, “I will.”

She stops beside her car. “You want to come over for dinner?”

“I’m meeting Don at the bar.”

That quiets her more effectively than I expect.

“Paul.”

“I’m not going to drink myself under the table.”

“I know.”

“You used the voice.”

“I have many voices. You’re just sensitive right now.”

That’s true enough to end the argument.

She reaches out and smooths the collar of my polo. “Call me later.”