Chương 4
“Did he know your apartment number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he follow you before today?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you tell the building manager?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I don’t want to make this into something bigger.”
Claire looked at me.
“Someone was sitting outside your home because people you blocked paid him to find you.”
I stared at the floor.
“It’s already something.”
We went downstairs together.
The building manager, Rakesh, was replacing batteries in a smoke detector when we found him.
He listened while standing on a short aluminum ladder, one hand still holding the detector cover.
“You want me to call police?”
“No.”
“Good, because unless he threatened you, they will probably not do much.”
“I know.”
Rakesh climbed down.
“But I can save lobby footage.”
That made me look up.
“We have cameras?”
He frowned.
“Conor, you walk past them every day.”
“I thought those were decorative.”
“They are ugly enough to be real.”
He pulled out his phone.
“I’ll save today.”
“Thank you.”
“And if he comes inside, I tell him leave.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Rakesh nodded.
Then he held up the smoke detector cover.
“You know apartment 306 took this down because they said it was blinking too bright?”
Claire said, “That sounds safe.”
“People are idiots.”
He went back to his ladder.
Upstairs, Claire opened her laptop.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking up what private investigators can legally do.”
“I don’t want to obsess over this.”
“Then don’t.”
She typed.
“I’ll obsess efficiently.”
I walked to the kitchen.
There was a dirty plate in the sink from breakfast.
I washed it.
Then I washed the mug beside it.
Then I wiped down a counter that wasn’t dirty.
“Conor.”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re cleaning.”
“Same thing.”
Claire closed the laptop.
“Do you think they hired him because your dad is sick?”
I turned around.
“What?”
She watched my face.
“I’m asking.”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“You blocked everyone.”
“I have email.”
“You don’t check it.”
“I check my current email.”
“The old one?”
“No.”
Claire didn’t say anything.
That irritated me more than if she had argued.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That face.”
“I’m sitting here.”
“That skeptical face.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself.
“You stole that from me.”
“I improved it.”
The brief laugh that escaped me felt almost painful.
Then the apartment went quiet again.
“I don’t want to know,” I said.
Claire nodded.
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I said okay.”
But twenty minutes later I was sitting at the kitchen table with my old laptop open.
The email account was still active because I had never gone through the trouble of deleting it.
I had changed the password once after moving, mostly because the service kept sending security notices.
There were four hundred and twelve unread messages.
I stared at the number.
Claire stood behind me without touching my chair.
The newest email was from Lily.
The subject line read PLEASE READ THIS ONE.
Below it were messages from Mom.
Josh.
Aunt Denise.
Marissa.
Names I hadn’t seen in two years arranged in a column like a family tree I had tried to cut down.
I scrolled without opening anything.
Then a subject line stopped me.
DAD HAD A STROKE.
The message was six days old.
My hand left the mouse.
Claire saw it over my shoulder.
Neither of us spoke.
I opened the email.
It was from Lily.
Conor, Dad had a major stroke Sunday morning.
He is alive, but it was serious.
He has weakness on his right side and trouble speaking.
The doctors don’t know yet how much he will recover.
Mom is a mess.
Josh is trying to handle everything and making everybody crazy.
Dad keeps asking for you.
I know you don’t want contact.
I know why.
I’m not asking you to forgive anyone.
I’m asking you to at least let us know you’re alive.
Please.
The rest of the message contained the hospital name and Lily’s phone number.
I read it twice.
Then I closed the laptop.
Claire pulled out the chair across from me.
“What are you feeling?”
“I hate that question.”
“Fair.”
“I don’t know.”
Also true.
A stroke should have produced something clean.
Fear.
Grief.
Satisfaction.
Guilt.
Instead, I felt an ugly combination of all four.
My father had been the loudest person in every room I had ever shared with him.
The idea of him struggling to speak seemed impossible.
I pictured him on the reunion bench.
Then I pictured a hospital bed.
The two images refused to fit together.
“I don’t want to go,” I said.
Claire folded her hands.
“You don’t have to.”
“I should probably call.”
“You don’t have to do that either.”
“If he dies—”
I stopped.
Claire waited.
I rubbed both palms over my face.
“If he dies and I never talk to him again, then that’s permanent.”
“Yes.”
“You could tell me I’d regret it.”
“I don’t know what you’ll regret.”
“That’s helpful.”
“It’s true.”
I pushed the laptop away.
She reached across the table and turned it sideways so it wouldn’t slide off.
“People always act like regret only comes from not going back,” I said.
Claire nodded.
“Sometimes going back creates its own regret.”
“Yes.”
“So decide based on what you can live with, not what makes them comfortable.”
I looked at her.
“That sounded suspiciously wise.”
“I work in a library.”
“You shelve graphic novels.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I smiled despite myself.
That night I slept badly.
At four seventeen in the morning, I got up and stood at the window.
Rain shone beneath the streetlights.
A delivery truck idled near the corner.
Someone in the building across from mine stood on a balcony smoking.
Ordinary people having ordinary nights.
I opened Lily’s email again.
At seven, I sent a reply.
I am alive.
Do not send anyone to my apartment again.
That was all.
Her response came three minutes later.
THANK GOD.
May you like
Then another.
I’m sorry about the investigator.
