Chapter 7: The Rain

On Wednesday evening I found Anthony in his kitchen, cutting an onion he had no intention of eating.

I had been rehearsing the question all day, at work, on the bus, in the shower.

"Tobias knew who you were," I said.

The knife stopped.

"You didn't look surprised by the postcards. You knew my coffee order.

"You knew Pierce would come to the lobby." I put both hands flat on the counter. "Who are you?"

"I told you who I am."

"You told me what you own. Tell me why you were told to call me."

He set the knife down and wiped his hands on a towel.

For a long moment he didn't speak, and I watched him decide.

"Your father asked me to keep an eye on you," he said. "Eight years ago."

The kitchen went very quiet.

"Keep an eye on me how?"

"A man at my firm checked on you twice a year. Your address. Your job. That you were eating."

He was looking straight at me.

"I read the reports."

"You read reports about me."

"Yes."

"For eight years."

"Yes."

"Did he pay you?"

"He paid the firm. I never took a cent of it." His jaw moved. "It wasn't a job, Lizzie."

"The coffee."

"It was in the first report."

I laughed, and the sound came out cracked.

"Every nice thing," I said. "The guest room. Holding my hands on the stairs.

"Standing next to me in the lobby. That was the file."

"No."

"Then what was it?"

He didn't answer.

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