“Well, maybe sometimes. But mostly you seem cuddly and lovable.”

“Give it time,” I said. I held up both my hands in front of her face.

“What am I looking at?”

“The scars on my knuckles. I can’t let you think that I only get hit.”

She took my right hand, turned it over, and studied it.

“There’s literally a scar on every single knuckle except your thumb.”

“Damn right there is,” I said proudly.

“You’re crazy,” she said. She dropped my hand and placed her head on my chest and draped her right leg over my waist.

“I really am sorry about tonight.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand. We’re still new to each other. I just hope you’ll learn to trust me.”

“I will,” I said. “Promise.”

seventeen

1

ANOTHER LETTER ARRIVED IN the middle of January. It was addressed to my Chicago apartment, not rerouted from New York, which meant my father now had my new address. It was a surefire way to put me in a shitty mood.

Most days, Carolyn checked the mail before I made it home, and she would place whatever there was on the kitchen counter, but that day, the letter was the only thing in the box. Had she found it and left it there as if she hadn’t? Perhaps. I ripped it in half, walked outside, tossed it into one of the garbage cans, went upstairs. The apartment was empty. Carolyn’s shift was supposed to have ended at two, and she should have been home. I called her phone. It didn’t ring and went straight to voicemail. I left a message, then called again. Again, straight to voicemail, which I assumed meant her phone was turned off.