‘That’s right. I had a break-in at my apartment last week. Nothing was missing so I didn’t call it in, but someone was definitely there.’

Shit, I just realized what I’ve said. And so does she.

‘Rebecca, if the note was taken from your apartment, that would mean you would have seen it. Your mailbox is in the hallway, right? You would have had to collect the note for it to end up in your apartment.’ Think, Becca, think.

‘Unless she slipped it under my door.’

‘And did she… slip it under your door?’

‘I didn’t see any note, detective.’

‘Okay.’ Turner stands up. The guy who disturbed us earlier sticks his head in the room again, demanding Turner’s attention. This time she relents.

‘You can go now Rebecca, but I need you to keep looking for anything that might relate to Katie Collins’ attempt to contact you.’

The cold air hits me in the face when I leave the precinct and walk out on to the busy street. People knock off me, rushing past as I move along at a pace too slow for them. I’m in no hurry. I have nowhere to be. I decide to visit Mom, see if I can tease any more words out of her.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Today there is a party at Oakridge. Someone has reached the big eighty, or ninety, or possibly even one hundred. It saddens me that Mom will never reach any of these milestones. She won’t even make it to sixty.

Everyone is invited to take our loved ones down to the social room and join in the fun. When Mom was first incarcerated here, I used to walk her down to the room, sing songs and laugh, dance and eat cake. Not anymore. Now I push her in a wheelchair, watch her as she looks around the room wondering what’s going on, and crumble bits of cake into her mouth.

People are huddled in groups in the lobby, waiting for the festivities to begin. Dad doesn’t come anymore. He thinks it’s a pointless exercise. Danny never came. This would be all too backward for his high-flying world.

Leaving behind the carnival atmosphere, I walk down the corridor and take the elevator to Mom’s room. I don’t make that wish anymore, the one where I hope she knows me. No point setting myself up for disappointment. I have lowered my standards: now I just hope she is comfortable and in no pain. Today I find her strapped into a wheelchair, a nurse tucking a blanket around her useless legs. Her hair is brushed into a shape more suited to an eighty-year-old and someone has put lipstick on her lips.

‘Look, it’s Rebecca,’ the nurse says to Mom.

‘Hi, Mom.’ I kneel down beside her but she barely notices me, if at all. She is still smiling at the nurse and nodding her head.