Page 18 of I Need You to Read This
She passes it back to Alex with a smear of syrup on the corner.Raymond intercepts, snatches it from her hand. He takes his reading glasses from his pocket, his fingers shaking as he pushes them onto his face.
“It’s probably nothing,” Alex speculates as Raymond holds the note out from himself, turning it this way and that with his fingertips as though it might be explosive.
“It’s a threat,” Raymond barks, startling them both.
“Oh, Raymond, I don’t know,” Alex says. “It could be anything.”
Janice rolls her eyes. “You know how he gets. It’s all the crap he reads in theDaily. Always some scandal or somebody getting dismembered. It gets into your head.”
“Maybe it’s a love letter,” Alex says. “Like, I know you better than anyone could ever know you.”
“Or maybe she wrote it to herself, as some sort of reminder,” Janice speculates.
“It’s a letter that saysI knowon the desk of a dead woman,” Raymond says, exasperated. He is looking intently at Alex now. “Was there anything else? Something tucked into the book maybe? Another note?” His eyes are sharp as daggers. He must have been a terror in the interrogation room back in the day.
Alex swallows. “No—I mean, there’s the dedication. But it’s in different handwriting than the notecard. She probably just stuck it in there to use as a bookmark or something.”
“How could they have missed it?” Raymond mutters, still gazing at her over the half-moons of his reading glasses. “Now you are right there, right in the thick of it. This is something to take very seriously. A threatening letter is admissible evidence, Alexis.”
Alex’s chest tightens. She takes the card back from Raymond.
Even Janice seems to be considering this. “It wasn’t written in a hurry, that’s for sure.”
“No, it is quite deliberate,” Alex agrees, staring down at the perfect curve of the penmanship. “But I’m not sure I want to start getting paranoid.”
“It’s not paranoia. It’s evidence.” Raymond slams his palm down on the counter, sending a ripple of plates rattling. “Did you ever thinkthat it could have been given to Francis as a threat?” he shouts, ignoring the glares of several diners at the other end of the counter. “Hell, it may have even been written by her killer.” His face is getting red.
“Ray, even if it was, what would I do with it?” Alex protests, looking around. She isn’t interested in the entire diner knowing her business. But there is a part of her that is wondering if he’s right. Now that it’s out in the open, she feels obligated to address the possibility that the notecard is more ominous than at first glance. “Should I take it to the police?”
“Forget it!” Raymond shakes his head. “That detective what’s-his-name.” He snaps his fingers, trying to remember. “That fucking Delfonte. He will drop it into some file somewhere and no one will give it a second look. He should never have been attached to the case. It’s way above his pay grade.”
“Then what do I do?” Alex says helplessly. She doesn’t have time for this. She has a column to write and about three hundred letters left to read by Friday. “Can I just forget it for right now?”
“No!” Janice and Raymond both yell in unison. Raymond points a finger at her.
“Now, listen to me, Alexis. I want you to find a sample of Francis Keen’s handwriting so we can rule her out as the writer. And be careful with this.” He hands back the card, carefully holding the edges. “This is admissible evidence, so don’t mess with it.”
It’s hard to take him seriously with the amount of toast crumbs on his T-shirt, but Alex nods as stoically as she can. She has more to worry about than playing detective. If she doesn’t figure out her column soon, she won’t even have her job come Friday.
“I think you have to find out who wrote it, Alex,” Janice says.
“I have to go.” Alex puts the card in her purse and slides off her stool. She makes a beeline for the door, wishing she hadn’t brought any of it up. Now if there is even the slightest connection between the notecard and Francis’s murder, she will feel responsible for it.
“Bagel! Alex!” Janice calls, waving a paper bag at her.
“Oh, right, thanks!” Alex turns back and grabs the bag, tucking itinto her purse. She remembers something. “Actually, I think the book of poems was Yeats.”
“Oh, well, then the note was definitely threatening,” Janice says, crossing her arms over her apron.
Raymond’s basset-hound eyes follow her warily. “You are involved now, Alexis, whether you like it or not.”
SIXTEEN
At the office she settles herself back into Francis’s old desk. How long will it take for it to feel like her own? Maybe once she has successfully written a column? Or perhaps once she has been here a month? Or possibly never, Alex thinks, dumping the latest bin of envelopes out onto the desk and pawing through them.
What Lucy said about the actual letters being the juicy ones is true. Alex has already read so many shocking admissions she is nearly numb, from cheating spouses to secret debts; there are things in the pages on her desk that could end marriages and ruin careers and put more than a few people into serious legal trouble. Still, she completely understands why they do it. There is something sacred about being able to put all of your worries, all the struggles and sadness, down on a piece of paper and sending it off to somebody anonymously. Something nearly ritualistic, like burning a photo of your ex or a scrap of paper at New Year’s.
The downside to this is that she can’t help everyone. What can Alex say to ease the guilt of someone who wasn’t there when a loved one died, or to soothe a woman who has lost her baby? All she wants to do is fix everything for them, to give them back their sparks for life, to ease their guilt.
