The home number she’d given me rang indefinitely, and her cell phone went straight to voicemail. I left two messages the afternoon I received Victor’s second letter, and two more the next day. Fearing I was becoming a pest, I waited an agonizing twenty-four hours before calling her at work. She seemed surprised to hear from me, and not particularly thrilled. I told her I’d been trying her for days, then waited for her to offer an excuse. When she didn’t, I said, “I need to see you.” “I don’t know if that’s the best idea.” She sounded remote, and I realized she had misunderstood me. “It’s not about that. I got another letter.” “Letter?” “From Victor Cracke,” I said. When she said nothing, I added, “The artist?” “Oh. I didn’t know you’d gotten a first one.” “Your father didn’t mention it?” “No. So you can contact him, then.” At first I thought she meant her father, and that she was making a sick joke. “There’s no return address.
