Chapter 6: In Writing

At midnight I put Junie in her coat over her pajamas and carried her out to the car.

She did not wake up.

Desmond's light was off. Jocelyn had driven Annie home before ten, and my husband had gone to bed angry.

I left a note on the kitchen table saying I had taken Junie to my father's lake house for the weekend.

Then I took Patrick Rask's address off the trust letters I had never opened.

He lived on a quiet street in Lincoln Park, in a narrow brick house with one light on over the door.

I sat in the car with the engine running for a full minute.

In my first life, I had never driven here.

I knew exactly how that life had ended, and I knew nobody in it had been at my door.

So I got out, lifted Junie onto my shoulder and rang the bell.

He opened it in a gray sweater and bare feet, with a book in one hand.

He looked at my face first, then at the child on my shoulder, then back at me.

"Mrs. Bancroft."

"I want to ask you something," I said. "In writing."

Something went across his face too quickly to name.

"Come in."

His kitchen was warm and plain, with a kettle, a table and two chairs.

I laid Junie on the sofa in the next room.

He took a blanket from the back of it and tucked it around her feet.

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