Chapter 11: Lorna

Brodie put his hand on the small of my back.

He didn't say anything.

He just stayed there, warm through my sweater, while I looked at the woman who'd taught me to tie my shoes.

"The ninth," I said. "What's on the ninth?"

"The boathouse." Lorna set the mug down. "He's dedicating it himself. And then Homecoming week starts, and he's staying through the gala."

"He didn't tell me."

"He doesn't want you there."

"I live here, Lorna."

Trudy took the pancakes to the table and sat down with them and a fork.

"Hi," she said to Lorna. "I'm Trudy. I'm the roommate. You told a cop she was a thief."

Lorna's cheeks went pink.

"I know who you are, dear. Brielle has told me."

"Bet she has."

Lorna turned back to me.

She'd brought a canvas tote, and she lifted something out of it.

My navy winter coat, the one with the toggle buttons.

A round tin I knew by its dent.

"It gets cold up here in October," she said. "And I made the shortbread."

I didn't take either of them.

"Did you give her Mom's picture?"

She held the coat against her chest.

"The one from the upstairs hall," I said. "The garden one. Did she take it, or did you give it to her?"

Lorna looked at the floor.

"I gave it to her."

The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the polka station through the ceiling.

"When she was small, she used to stand in that hallway and look at it."

Lorna's voice was very low.

"Last summer she asked if she could have a copy. I didn't ask why."

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