This is everything?” Mike ran a tired hand across his scalp, the wrinkles around his eyes, in his forehead, etched more deeply than I could ever remember. It was after 1 a.m. We sat at the kitchen table, an empty pizza box between us, while I tried to help him understand the events of the last thirteen years. The last week. The last twenty-four hours. The rape. Pierce’s murder. The baby girl I left behind in Italy. I had brought out the shoebox stuffed with the obscene letters I’d received for years after I returned from Europe. No signature, no return address. While the rain drummed a steady rhythm on the roof, I had told him about all of the hang-ups and the delivery of the cigar. I didn’t answer. I let him assume that was everything. I couldn’t tell him about Caroline’s files. Not yet. What I’d done was illegal. He would never keep it from his boss, from that insufferable Harry Dunn, because Mike’s that kind of guy. He would get fired. I’d be responsible for a black blot on his pristine record.
