“Anywhere. Nowhere.” He was fidgeting with the papers he’d removed from between her mattresses. I could now see that they were letters, in envelopes. They made me think of the bundle I’d pulled from the files at Pine Breeze.

“What are those? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

“These?” He held them up. “Nothing. They’re all empty. Just empty, old stationery. Some of them are postmarked as far back as fifty years ago. Look at this one—July twelve, 1956.”

I took one from him and examined it for myself. Yes, it was empty, but I had a feeling it wasn’t “nothing.” The one I held was made from the same cheap paper as the one I’d found in Leslie’s file. The handwriting on the outside was even the same. And so was the postmark: Highlands Hammock, Fla.

“Harry, what’s in Highlands Hammock?”

“Where?” He looked at the postmark. “In Florida? I don’t know.”

“Is it anywhere near St. Augustine?”

“No, not really. If it’s where I think it is, it’s considerably farther south, towards the Everglades. Now that you mention it, I think it might be a state preserve of some kind. Why do you ask?”

I told him about Pine Breeze, and about what I’d found during my excursions. “Come to think of it, the letters are out in my car,” I added. “You wanna see them?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Something about the handwriting intrigued me. I held the envelope up to the light and watched the paper glow. Something about it. Something . . . I’d seen it somewhere else. I climbed to my feet and started towards the bathroom.

“Where are you . . .? Oh,” Harry said, seeing my destination.

“No, I’m not going to use it, I want to check something.” I opened the medicine cabinet again and reached for the bottle that’d caught my attention earlier. The brown glass containers were where I’d left them, so I retrieved them again and held the labels up next to the envelopes.

A perfect match.

“Hey, Harry, check this out.” I returned to the bedroom with the bottle in one hand and the envelope in the other. “It’s the same on both of these.”

“So?”

“So whoever prescribed the dosage on this stuff also addressed this envelope.”

It took a few seconds for the truth to dawn on him. “But that envelope was sealed and mailed in 1956, and I know for a fact that that bottle arrived in the mail last week.” Then he shook his head. “No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Eliza’s over a hundred years old—it’s reasonable to think she has friends of a comparable age. Especially if they’re in Florida.”

“Possibly,” I conceded. “I guess there are a lot of old people in Florida.” But I couldn’t help but think my deduction was more significant than coincidence.