Chapter 13: The Passenger

The rusted sedan turned out of the drive with its one headlight on in broad daylight.

I watched until it was gone.

Behind me, the front door opened.

"Maisie?" Anne said. "You're white as a sheet. Come inside."

"I have to go."

"Go where?"

"Pawtucket."

Thatcher was in the doorway behind his mother.

He took one look at my face and reached for his keys on the hall table.

"Not in this house," I said. "Your father said."

"We're not in the house. We're on the steps."

"I'm going alone."

"Then I'll drive you alone and wait in the car alone."

Anne looked from him to me.

"Whatever this is," she said, "you'll call me in an hour. Both of you."

The Purdys' duplex was the same.

Gray siding, a sagging porch, a plastic chair with a crack down the seat.

In my first life I'd climbed those steps every night for three years with my left shoe full of checks.

Thatcher parked across the street, two houses down.

"One hour," he said. "Then I knock."

"He'll be nice to you. He's nice to people with money."

"Then I'll be very rich at him."

I didn't laugh.

He took my hand off the door handle and held it for a second.

"Whatever it is," he said, "I'm right here."

Doreen answered the door in her school uniform, a mop bucket behind her in the hall.

She looked at my coat and my clean shoes and did the math.

"Mrs. Stanhope send you?"

"She sent Dena's sweater," I said, and held up the bag I'd taken off the guest room bed. "Dena forgot it."

Doreen took the bag and felt the wool between her fingers.

Cashmere.

Her face softened in the way I remembered.

"She's doing the laundry. Go on back. Lyle's at a meeting."

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